Through the Worlds
by cc1989
Summary: Emma and Henry struggle to survive in a new world filled with hungry zombies when two strangers from a different world show up, change everything and claim that Emma has forgotten who she is and has to save her parents from a threat across another realm. What will it take to get her memories back? Will it be in time?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello readers, here's a story I've been working on awhile. AU with Zombies, naturally. Hopefully I'll be able to update once a day-ish. I'm gonna say this is an M rating for language and future adult themes. Just to be safe.  
TW - gore, violence towards zombies.  
I don't own any of these characters, obvs, for that matter I don't matter any movies or celebrities I might mention.**

**Oh, and p.s. there will be a couple of crossovers from relevant things that I'll mention as we get there. **

* * *

**March 31st 2013**

Rule number one in Zombieland New York is CARDIO. That's right. Cardio.

_**Rule # 1 - CARDIO **_

- It's me, Emma Swan, ahem, I mean, Boston, writer extraordinaire, and I'll be sure to highlight the other rules as I go. I'm kidding about the extraordinaire part, the writing's awful, I know. But when there aren't many people left in the world, someone has to keep a record of what's happened, right? Right? Well, it sucks that it had to be me, but someone's gotta do it. My handwriting blows and this bundle of papers and moleskin notebooks is getting thick, but whatever. Back to the story?

Only the strong survive when the world goes to hell. Darwin's evolution. At least I think that's what Darwin said. With the birds, right? And that's what's happened. Not the birds, but . . . well anyway, the world has gone to absolute shit and there's nothing I can do about it. Except survive, that is. I don't know how, or where they came from exactly or if it started as a terrorist attack or whatever, but it's already passed the one year anniversary of zombies royally fucking up our lives day in and day out.

I do know some general information about these things: it's just like people said it would be, sort of like the TV shows said it would be. They're people, well, they _were _people, and those people were infected with this virus that spread down from northeast somewhere, even farther northeast than we are now in New York City. They decay slowly, and they only have their basic brain and brain-stem functions: hunger, movement and motor control, vision, hearing, and of course heart rate and breathing. As fast as regular people, they can run and jump, and they get especially pissed if they're being threatened.

They want to eat other people, or animals, whatever they can get really, they're not picky. But they are particular to brains, so I've heard. And in honor of all those fine people who are dead in the ground, or dead walking around who said this day would come, that Armageddon would strike us someday, singing "I told you so!" in their dead zombie voices, I came up with some rules for survival. Not only for us, but also for them. As a big, fat, middle finger symbol to where they can shove their "I told you so!".

Because _they're_ dead. Or undead. And _we're_ still here. And the rules help, by the way. They really do.

Just like one of my favorite movies. Well, back when there were movies and enough electricity to watch those movies, I had favorite movies. Well, we do have the solar power, but it's a rare occasion that we use it for watching a movie. Now I'm just satisfied to be alive and reasonably healthy. And I'm happy I have my son. He's the only thing that matters, the only reason I continue to even give a shit. Because he deserves his best chance at life, even if it's a life full of chopping off zombie people's heads and scrounging around for food and weapons throughout the city. He's the only reason I don't just go out and lie down in the street, yelling, "come on you fuckers, here's breakfast!" and just let them have at me.

And he's the only reason I've got this apartment all boarded up and reinforced like there's nuclear fallout on the way. It wasn't easy, believe me, getting my hands on some of this stuff, this reinforced steel on the door, that stack of riot shields, those piles of assault rifles and shotguns. No ma'am, it wasn't easy at all. And it's taken me most of this year to acquire all of it without getting my own head chopped off, or worse, bitten off by one of those zombies.

But anyway, here we are, me and Henry, sorry Bronx, he goes by Bronx these days, casually eating biscuits from a box and also canned soup. We cook everything either sparingly on the electric stove, or downstairs on the grill or here in the fireplace, just like they used to in the old days, or so I figure. I didn't pay much attention in history class, or any class for that matter growing up. I do understand a little physics, which is helpful. What I do really know how to do is survive on the streets, stealing if I have to and breaking in to places if the need arises and those skills have come in pretty handy so far.

Speaking of history class, and school for that matter, don't worry, I brought Bronx with me down to the Barnes and Noble, abandoned of course, except for a few walkers here and there, stumbling around the fiction section. He picked out plenty of books, and I even made sure he got a few textbooks as well. He was nice enough to grab me these notebooks and a couple books on survival and prepping; he's really the brains of the operation, if we're being serious here. The kid does seem to love to read. Who knows, maybe he'll learn something.

Not that it matters.

But don't tell him that. I know, I know, it's sort of a fatalist attitude, but after a year of this hell, it's hard to keep those thoughts buried. It's hard to hope that there will be any sort of civilization or learning community for him to get into if all of this chaos keeps up. Will there be any actual people left? Will he get to go to college someday? Or even high school?

He's staring at me, over his soup, which he's not slurping or drinking from the bowl or anything. The perfect little gentleman at only thirteen years old. So I smile at him, my own soup dribbling down my chin just a little, and that makes him laugh. Laughter is good. It's rare, few and far between, but it helps. It's one of the only things that helps. Besides the rules, of course.

That night, I toss and turn in my bed, right next door to Henry's with both of our doors open so we can hear each other. Just in case. It's not unusual for me to be tossing and turning. I'm normally worried about one thing or another, usually the zombie apocalypse that is currently ruining our lives. Our perfectly good lives. You know, I just so happened to be Big Apple Bailbonds' number one employee, dragging and wrestling in all kinds of criminals one way or another. And I did have my ways. It helps that I used to look nice. Used to.

Now I'm way too thin, so thin you can see my ribs and hip bones with my shirt off, sort of like the way the contestants on Survivor would look towards the second half of the show. I make sure Bronx gets most of the food, secretly of course. He's a growing kid, and he's _always_ hungry. Always. So he gets the lion's share and I ignore my rumbling tummy. Not that I'm complaining. But anyway, I used to look better, with my hair done in curls down my back and a tight red dress and heels, when my hands weren't so damned calloused. I could lure in any man, like a black widow into her web, drawing them in and drawing them in and then BAM! hit em when they least expect it.

My hair now is sort of limp and still hangs down my back, but most of time it doesn't get washed, so I like to keep it up in a ponytail. Either that, or wrap a bandana around my hairline and call it good. Of course, dresses are off the table now. It's just comfortable jeans, cargo shorts if it's hot. And lots of tank tops. At least I've still got the arm muscles.

But that's not what I'm tossing and turning about. I could care less about my looks and what I'm wearing these days. What's keeping me from getting into my good sleep cycles are these damned dreams. It's one of those recurring dreams, the kind that you have every now and then and it's mostly the same every time. This one is like that, except it progresses a little more each time, takes me a little farther into this town. This really bizarre town that I don't think I've ever been to, but it really seems like I have.

There's this clock tower and it's stuck on 8:15, every time. And then the dream goes to several different places, sometimes over to the water, where there are ships and sailboats and fishing boats and seagulls, and then sometimes it goes to this tree with fruit on it. Other times, it takes me to what looks like a town hall and usually when this happens, I get sent to this room with a door. And that's all there is. Then I wake up. Every damn time.

* * *

**April 1st, 2013**

It's just getting light outside, the sun is peeking through my window, shining in my eyes and reminding me that another night has passed, another night we've survived, another night I haven't slept soundly. Swinging my legs over the side, I get up, trudge over to the side of my room and wash my face in the basin on the dresser. The water is tepid, sort of stale, but what can you do? The only partially running water we have is downstairs in the courtyard. My back cracks and protests as I bend over to pull on a pair of jeans and my boots, leaving on the loose tank I wore yesterday and slept in last night, tuck my nine millimeter into my waistband and head to the door.

I'm meeting Henry downstairs in the courtyard for breakfast. He's still asleep, lucky kid is able to sleep for hours at a time. Me on the other hand . . . not so much. I'll give him another hour or so and then wake him up. We're having leftover biscuits from last night. You know what I miss the most about life before zombies? Dairy products.

Milk with my cereal, cheese, ice cream, butter. God, butter. What I wouldn't give for a pat of butter on this biscuit. Maybe we should find a cow, or a goat.

Nah, too much work. Chickens wouldn't be so bad, though. I miss eggs too. Eggs fried in real bacon grease. God, I have to stop that. It's making me miserable.

On the bright side, Cheez whiz and velveeta seem to last forever, so those are some good ole American staples that are hard to find, but well worth it when you do. Maybe I'll look for some when I go on the run today.

It takes a good twenty seconds to undo all the locks and deadbolts I have on my steel reinforced door, but if it keeps both alive and dead people out, I'm all for letting that extra time go. Down three empty stories into the lobby, and I take a look around. Everything looks normal, nothing out of place. There are two exits on this floor, one in the front, another steel reinforced industrial style door, and the one I just came out of: the stairwell, which also leads down to the parking garage. That entrance to the street is gated and reinforced as well, and I've got three working vehicles down there, one of 'em's mine and the other two I hot-wired: the yellow bug, a pickup, and just a regular four door sedan. They all have about a half-tank of gas left in them that I try to use as sparingly as possible. We've also got two bicycles and a motorcycle, but that last doesn't get used much. It's way too loud and attracts all the walkers.

Anyway, I try to keep the entrances and exits as limited as possible, just in case we need to get away, but also because too many ways in could mean sort of a two-front battle, and that's not easy for only two people to defend. Up top in our apartment in fact, we've cleared all the lower floors from walkers and other dead bodies, and there are only two fire escapes on the outside of the building. Easy to get away, not so easy to get in to.

So I walk past the unused front desk and throw open the front door, stepping out into the courtyard and into the sunlight. It smells like vegetables and herbs at first from the small garden built on old shipping pallets directly in front of me, and then the wind just happens to be blowing my direction from the northwest and I get a whiff of the latrine. Ugh . . .

It's the best we can do, sort of like a port-a-potty. Not the best for smells, but I planted some lemongrass and lavender in containers around it, hoping to take some of the smell away.

Anyway, I hate to admit this, but you sort of get used to it. So I get on with my business and then wash up a little more at the solar shower. Now this was a cool invention. Basically just a gazebo type thing with black tubing coiled up on the roof. When you run water into the tube from one of the rain collection barrels, it sits there all day and heats up, leaving us with a few minutes worth of a warm shower. Not that we shower a whole lot, but it is nice every now and then.

To my left, there are several more rain collection barrels connected to gutters leading down from the roof, and we keep those around for extra water storage in case it doesn't rain. But New York gets plenty of rain, let me tell you.

And it's strange, I guess, that we haven't seen many alive people in the past few months, not since . . .well, anyway, not for a while now. People high-tailed it out of here when all hell broke loose. The ones that survived fled to the woods, to the suburbs, to places where the zombie population wasn't as intense. The walkers hide in the buildings and in the subway especially; we never go near the subway because of that. But if you're smart and you methodically and silently take out every walker you see, living in the city isn't so bad. There's plenty of stuff to scavenge, that's for sure.

And lucky for us, right before the outbreak, the Bronx had just started their emergence into the environmentally friendly scene and several buildings around here are outfitted with solar panels on the roof. Photo-voltaic cells to be exact, and they're perfect for what we needed. The batteries and inverters and switches were all in pretty good condition, just had to read up on how we could unhook it from the non-working grid and keep it solely focused on our apartment and the downstairs lobby and kitchen. It runs one small direct current freezer downstairs and our lights and electric stove upstairs.

But we only use the alternating current power at nighttime, besides the freezer of course because that makes for a more efficient system. It's nice not having to use it for heating water or heating our apartment, for that we just bundle up when it gets cold and open the windows and run a fan when it gets hot. On nights when we have a little extra power left in the battery, we pop a movie in the small TV and DVD player. For two hours of playing time, it's only about 350 watts. It's a rare treat. His favorite movie used to be Finding Nemo, but he always refused to watch the ending.

What he absolutely will not watch are the rest of the animated kid's movies. Like the Disney princesses and Lion King and Toy Story. And neither will I. Not because the princesses need saving and they're weak or anything like that, although sometimes that is the case; it's really more about the happily ever after business. And that spawned one of Henry's rules. You can always tell the difference between mine and Henry's rules. Anyway:

_**Rule #540 - NO FAIRYTALES**_

Because living like this is real. It's a real situation, and it hasn't been easy. It wasn't ever easy, really, for me. Growing up in foster care, floating from place to place without feeling like anyone ever really loved me pretty much eliminated all hopes of a happily ever after. Yeah, yeah. Sob story, I know. And Hen-Bronx hasn't had it easy either. I had him when I turned eighteen and still in prison for theft. Bronx's father, that bastard sperm donor, not only knocked me up, but also left me hanging out to dry with his stolen watches while he got the hell out of Dodge. Rotten son of a bitch. But I don't like to talk about that.

Back to the fairytales. Sometimes we even take it so far as to purposely destroy princess and other animated merchandise we happen upon. Target practice doesn't always have to be serious and business. It's actually soothing to shoot off the princess barbie's heads and stuffed animals and riddle their DVD boxes full of mostly-useless-for-killing-zombies .22 bullets and reusable arrows.

I guess I should explain the fact that I haven't been using first names. You've probably noticed, reader of my journals, that we've taken city names and use them as call signs if you will. Well, that's a painful story and it involves the death of people we had gotten to know pretty well, people who were our allies here in the city, friends even. It's not easy saying goodbye to people like that, and it's even worse when they turn into zombies and you're forced to kill them. Or unkill them. I don't know what to call it, it's all fucked up. The worst part is knowing they had a first name and a last name and family and a whole past and maybe a kitten or a gerbil and then all of a sudden they're undead, standing in front of you, ready to eat your brains, and there's nothing you can do about it except kill them. The worst part is you know their name. Something else I don't like to talk about.

So that's the next rule.

_**Rule #35 - NO FIRST NAMES**_

I picked the city of Boston as my name because I spent most of my early childhood there, bouncing around the system, before going to my last foster family in Oregon later on. Plus, Henry, I mean Bronx, and I lived there for all of his life until right before the apocalypse happened. We moved to New York after our apartment burned down. God, this is just a regular old series of unfortunate events in our lives, isn't it? And then pretty soon after we got here, the zombies started showing up and people started panicking and turning on each other and looting businesses and rioting in the streets and then finally most of them left. We stayed put, rode out the storm like a hurricane, and emerged when we could, looking for water and food and the like.

The kid, if you can imagine, does not like the Red Sox at all. Three guesses for the baseball team he roots for. That's right, the Yankees. Even though we live here, I still can't forgive him for it.

And speaking of the little traitor, with his hair all mussed and sleep still in his eyes, here he comes out the front door, yawning and stretching in the early sunlight. He smiles at me, and trudges on to the latrine as I cut open two biscuits for him, smearing what's left of our strawberry jam on top. I fix one for myself and sit down at the table we dragged from the lobby out next to the vegetable garden. When it's nice out, there's not much better than just sitting and relaxing in our little enclosure, looking up at the clouds going by and wishing life's circumstances were a little different.

When he comes out, he says good morning and thanks me as he stuffs half of the biscuit in his mouth, wiping away my earlier ponderings as to how he got to be such a fine young gentleman. I see myself in him now, crumbs falling all over his front and a big, dopey grin on his face, happy just to be eating.

"You look tired," he says in his half-squeaky, pubescent voice with his mouth full. All I can do is glare at him and give him the stink eye because I'm sure I do look tired, seeing as how I never get much sleep anymore.

"Was it the dream again?" Jesus, he's more observant than a damn reporter. I nod, finish off my biscuit and stand up, taking the few steps in between the table and the water barrels. The water makes a satisfying gushing sound when it flows from the orange cooler as I fill up my water bottle; it's the kind that fits in a little holder and goes around your shoulder, easy to transport.

"It's the weirdest thing," I start, sitting back down and handing the bottle over to him. He takes a few serious glugs, plops it down on the table, and goes back to finishing up his second biscuit. "Sometimes it's more vivid, and other times I can't really tell what's going on, but it's always the same town and there's always a door at the end."

"And the clock?"

I nod. "Yeah, the clock was stuck at 8:15 again. And it's cold there."

"And there are never any people who talk to you?"

"They're there, but I never see their faces. I catch glimpses of them turning around corners, always walking away from me."

"That is weird," he agrees, chewing thoughtfully, a little more civilized now that he isn't so ravenous. "Maybe you have anxiety?"

My eyebrow arches at him. Of course I have anxiety. We live in a world with zombies. "You been reading dream interpretation books or something?"

He shrugs, swallowing the last of his biscuit and wiping his hands on his jeans, which could probably use a good scrubbing, I note while not really caring. "I might've looked at one at the bookstore. Anyway, you going on the run today?"

"Yep. Anything else you think we need?"

Shaking his head, he doesn't make eye contact with me and I know exactly what he's thinking. He wants to go with me. But that's a no. Not a no, but a hell no. I just don't feel as safe when he's out there with me, not like I do when I know he's in here, safe behind these walls, with weapons and a walkie talkie and an escape route if he needs one. There's not always an escape route where I go.

"You sure you don't need a plus one?"

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to get rid of my biggest fear. Of watching a crowd of walkers overtaking him while I'm stuck fighting off some other ones, helpless and desperate, watching him pushed to the ground and hearing his screams and pleading for me and I can't do anything about it. That fear is burned into my brain, though, and I'd just really rather he stayed here, even if it is nice to have someone watching my back out there.

"I'm good," I say steadily, looking at him now and waiting for him to look me in the eye. "You'll be okay here?"

"Always am," he says gloomily, but I'm not falling for his moping act. He's been out there enough times. He knows what it's like and knows that I want him here and I want him alive. But I know what his fears are too. He's afraid I won't come back if I leave. That I'll go one day and they'll get me and he'll be here all by himself. We probably should talk about what he would do in a situation like that, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It's too painful, thinking about leaving him without any parent at all. Maybe I should start taking him along. Maybe. Maybe next time.

"What are you gonna do while I'm gone?" Up on his feet now, the kid walks slowly next to the vegetables and I watch as he pulls weeds every now and then, tossing them to the concrete below the raised beds. He doesn't answer me right away, just keeps walking and messing with the leaves and budding flowers.

"I dunno, practice my aim with the bow, I guess."

"Good," I say, as cheerfully as I can, because that's the only way I can think of to make him feel better, short of letting him go with me. "I'll have the walkie talkie."

"Okay," he says, still looking down, but I can still hear the love in his voice. "Remember the rule."

I nod, standing up and making my way back into the lobby so I can go upstairs and get ready. "Number seventeen, don't be a hero."

_**Rule #17 - DON'T BE A HERO**_

_**-  
A/N - let me know what you think?**_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - I'll be going back and forth between present and past. And here in the past, I've used some stuff directly from the show and then changed it a bit to suit the story. Not making any money off of it though! **

**Enchanted Forest - nearly a year earlier. August 2012**

_******(let's say for the sake of the story that the seasons in the Enchanted Forest are a little skewed, it's nearly winter here.)**_

The purple smoke recedes slowly, rolling off their shoulders and around their feet until finally it dissipates and the group is left with only the wilderness and themselves. But even in that wilderness there is some civilization. A couple, a man and a woman, emerge from a partially hidden gazebo through the trees not thirty feet away. Their eyes are wide and their surprise is evident. It's not every day, after all, that a group of twenty people arrives in a cloud of purple.

Snow greets the woman like an old friend, but Regina isn't sure she knows either of them. Not that she cares to. All she can think about is her son, but more specifically, not having her son anymore. The feeling clenches her heart and doesn't let go, its hand squeezing and squeezing until she thinks she might pass out from the effort of simply standing here among everyone. The tight, medieval corset compressing her ribs and lungs isn't helping much either. She's magicked them all into having the clothes they left this world onto their bodies, because everything that they had prior to the curse is what they have now. Even Charming's shirt is still bloody and ripped from that evening so long ago when he had fought for his wife and newborn baby.

All of that had led to this. Abandonment. Again. Snow and Charming had to leave their child again, had to say goodbye and hope for the best. And now Regina knows exactly what that feels like. She looks around, noting their approximate location and taking a good look at the new couple before them, going on about why they're here, what happened while they were gone and where they will go next. But it's difficult to focus on what they're saying, mainly because Regina can't find it within her to care.

Everything should be the same. Except it's not. It's not even close to the same because she's given up her son to a woman she's not even sure is up to the job of mothering him properly. Emma Swan is not short of desire to do well, that's for sure, but as for abilities, Regina has her doubts. But it's too late now for any doubts and second guessing. Now is the time for getting on with her life.

Her new life without her son, the only reason worth living in that godforsaken town. When it all went to hell after 'the savior' showed up, starting time up again and knocking over the first domino that would set off the chain of events that would break her curse and return everyone's memories to them. Even with people knowing who she was and what she had done to them in retaliation for all the things done to her in the past, she didn't care. She had Henry and that was all that mattered. Only, she didn't really have Henry anymore, not after Henry swore off magic and swore her off magic, not after Emma and Snow had been ripped from that world back into this one, trying to save Regina's life from the wraith.

Well, Emma tried to save her life. Snow was just going after her long lost daughter, like that would have made any difference. She's certain the confounded woman and her love-struck husband now are concerned mainly about starting a new family, starting over and giving a new baby a fresh chance. She had received another chance at Henry, but it hadn't felt quite right again, not until Neverland. No, Henry had seen her use magic against Charming, and even though she tried to win him back after that, it took him a while to trust her again, especially after practically wrenching him away from everyone else in an attempt to force him to stay with her. But that was short lived.

She remembers all too well how it felt to be held captive by her own mother and how all she wanted was freedom, the freedom to choose who she loved and how and the freedom to come and go as she pleased. At that point, she had been denying Henry that and knew that it wouldn't work, knew that Henry would never love her like she wanted him to. Regina shakes her head at the thought, wiping a hand across her bleary eyes. Even through all that, she still holds a special place in her heart for her mother, even after the woman had killed her first love, her true love, and even after she had forced Regina to marry Leopold, that disgusting old man.

It was too much, all that had happened, saving the town from the trigger she had planted herself along with Emma's help, and then realizing Henry had been kidnapped to Neverland, two gut wrenching events that took so much out of her, especially after having just been tortured by Greg when she refused to tell him that where his father was. Idiot man, thinking that he could hurt her with threats of death and pain? Had she not suffered through all those things tenfold in her life?

His torture was nothing. And probably, she might have deserved some of it for killing his father. She could handle anything he threw at her, any promise of death. No promise like that could make Regina quiver in fear. No, at the thought of losing her son, Regina knows just how easy it would be to welcome death, to welcome the thought of eternally sleeping, forever blacking out on this nightmare. Even in Neverland, against threats from Tink and threats from Pan, she didn't flinch. She hadn't flinched, because none of that scared her. No, and she didn't have any regrets either. Not like those weaklings Emma and Snow, regretting leaving their children behind.

She would never do something like that, abandon her own child on purpose without really giving him his best chance. Her head dips at the thought. She had abandoned him, in a way, but only because she had to. And she had left him with his birth mother, with a capable woman, she realizes it now, that Emma is capable, so that Henry will know family and will know again what it means to be loved from the beginning without abandonment.

And Regina still has no regrets, because she did what she had to do, damn the consequences. Emma and Snow could have done things differently. And certainly Snow, in her lifetime, Regina looks over at her, staring up at Charming with those wide, frightened eyes. But she knows what Snow is thinking underneath that initially shocked expression. Snow is more than ready to start her new life here, to rebuild and reclaim the kingdom, to start a new family and have her happy ending, who gives a damn about the people she neglects in the process. That makes Regina think of Emma, of Henry's other mother, of the savior, of the woman who crawled under her skin and infuriated her for close to two years, until she finally began to realize that Emma truly meant her no harm, that Emma understood her more than anyone. That all Emma wanted was for her son, for their son to be safe.

And now he would be safe with Emma. And Regina knows now what she wants to do, what she has to do for her own sake, for everyone else's sake as well. That eternal sleep is sounding more and more appealing.

Most of them have wandered off to explore, while Regina, Snow, Charming, the pirate and the new couple stand around in the gazebo. Regina stares off in to the forest, wondering how much has changed and how much is left. Snow is the only one who's been here in the past thirty years, and she would have all the information, apart from what they could get out of these two new lovebirds.

Regina tunes back into the conversation, right at the point where the woman, Aurora is her name and Phillip is the man's, is speaking about how the ogres have been defeated and they've taken back the land. And Charming, naturally, does not want to stay and celebrate, he wants to return to his kingdom and rebuild, start over and find his happy ending. Those two really are perfect for each other, Regina thinks with a roll of her eyes.

"But our castle was destroyed in the curse," Snow says to Charming, and everyone looks at Regina. Of course they do. Even the pirate, who had nothing to do with it, eyes her with contempt.

"Well done," he says. "You laid waste to everything."

She starts to retort, to summon more purple smoke and zap him into a rodent on the spot, when Aurora speaks again. Her tone matches Hook's and Snow's. "Not everything," she looks at Regina then, eyes narrowed. "Her castle still stands."

"Of course it does," Regina says. Naturally she would leave her own castle as it was. Just in case. "I protected it."

Charming pipes up then, needing to remind Snow that they have some claim to what is rightfully hers. "Technically, the castle doesn't belong to her. It was Snow's before she took it."

And Regina wonders why anger doesn't spike up hot and white into her mind like it usually does. This sort of statement would normally set her off into a frenzy of spell casting and a quest for revenge. She admits to herself that she had somewhat of a temper problem, it would be foolish to deny that. But things are different now, somehow. Even though Charming is dead wrong and the damned castle is hers, she can't really find it in herself to care about it.

"To be fair," is all she says, with little emotion. "I married into it."

Everyone knows she's right, of course, because she inherited the castle when Leopold died, or more accurately, when she had him killed. But no matter.

"That you did," Snow says, and her eyes are glowing with that crazed ambition that Regina remembers so well from when they were both so much younger. Not that Regina would put up much of a fight if they really wanted it back. She's not sure why they would, anyway. It's filled, for her, with bitter memories and death and the reminder of those years forced to share Leopold's bed. They can have it, she supposes, if they really want it. It won't be too difficult to get what she needs from her chambers and find a place to lie down for a long nap.

"And now we're taking it back," Snow continues. "And you are coming with us."

Regina balks. "You can't be serious."

All she wants is a few moments of peace and quiet to accomplish her task, not to be burdened with all these people and be unable to do what she wants with Snow breathing down her neck.

"Regina, everyone out there is scared and confused. They need hope, and what better way to do that than to return united?"

No argument will come to her mind, as much as she wills it. Again, she doesn't really care. But Snow goes on, rambling about how Regina probably won't like it, which is true, but that she'll learn to, which is not true, and that it's for everyone's good. All Regina can do is shrug, because if that's the way they want it, then fine.

They say goodbye to Aurora and Phillip and begin the day's long journey to Regina's castle, or Snow and Charming and Regina's castle. But as they prepare the horses Phillip has provided for them, Regina notices the seemingly happy couple arguing beneath the gazebo. She can't hear what they're saying, but they keep stealing glances towards the group. Something isn't right about it, but it's too late. It's time to go and she contemplates magicking herself to the entrance of her castle, just to avoid this walk and the company she'll have to endure during it. But doggedly, she trudges forward, like the rest of them towards the mountain and lake that her castle stands proudly over.

As the group travels, Grumpy informs Charming that more people from Storybrooke are popping up all over the place and the shepherd tells them to report to Regina's castle, that they'll all meet there and figure out what to do. The idea of every person in town crowding her place of solace sounds like an irritating headache to Regina, but there isn't much she can do about it. And next to the wrenching pain currently squeezing her heart, a headache is no big deal.

Then when Regina walks past Neal and Charming talking with their heads close together, she can't help but hear what they're saying. It makes her wish she hadn't walked past them at all.

"I know you're hurting, but Rumpelstiltskin is gone."

"Maybe," Neal says. "Maybe not. And maybe if he's not, he can get me back to Emma."

Emma, Regina thinks. He's concerned about Emma. No mention of his son, of Henry. Of her son. And just like that, the clenching pain is back full force, whereas before it was an ache. Now it's a full-fledged stabbing of her heart. Neal is concerned about Emma, and probably his son as well, but all Regina can think about is Henry. And all Neal wants is to get back and confuse the two of them. They have new memories, a new life, a fresh start, and she doesn't want Neal to screw with what she's given them, because it wasn't easy.

Strange, to think that heartache is thought of as a mental affliction, that the pain is all in the head, that the desires and loves of the mind are not literally driven by the heart. But the pain is real, this pain in her heart is real, figurative or not, she can feel it and it's the worst thing she's ever been through. Worse than living without Daniel, worse than her mother, worse than Leopold, worse than her time alone in the Land Without Magic, worse than being tortured with that electricity, and even worse than losing Henry to Neverland. At least then, she had hope of seeing him again.

She can still hear their conversation as she walks away.

"Regina was clear," Charming says firmly. "The price of our return was a complete reset. Supposedly there is no way to cross over, no more portals, and no way to conjure one without another curse."

All of this is true. As far as she knows, the curse will send everything back to normal, but as for portals, it's possible that there could be magic beans left in this world. There are always magic beans hidden away in dark places, ready to be used to travel through the worlds. There is always a way into another world, but as of right now, Regina possesses none of those ways.

"Even if we could reach them," Charming says, and Regina is thankful for this, as rare as it is that wise words come out of Charming's mouth. "They wouldn't remember us. So the best thing we can do is the only thing we can do. Let them be and give them their best chance."

It's true, that Neal will need to find Rumple in order to find or conjure a portal. Regina certainly isn't going to help him find one, not after what it took to say goodbye. But without him, Neal will simple have to learn to live without Emma and his son, just like she will. She almost laughs at that. How silly of her, to think that she can possibly live without the one person who made life worthwhile. No, she thinks, first I'll take out my heart because it hurts too damn much, and then I'll take a nice long nap. A type of sleep long enough and deep enough so that she won't have to think about Henry anymore and how impossible it is to be without him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Still April 1, 2013**

Once I'm upstairs, I gear up, which basically means I stuff guns in various parts of what little camouflage clothing I've found. New York City isn't big on stocking hunting equipment. Or guns for that matter. But some of the stuff I managed to scrape up at various NYPD stations. A spare gun or two, hidden at the back of a desk drawer, police grade walkie talkies and spare batteries. Their range is about five miles and we like to keep in contact the entire time I'm out somewhere. I put on my empty backpack and jog back down the stairs, preparing myself again for the kid's attitude.

He's barely a teenager so I guess I should take it with a grain of salt. Speaking of salt, we could probably use some more of that. I add it to my mental list. But the kid seems okay, not too terribly pissed as he follows me to the front gate in the courtyard, getting ready to close and lock it behind me when I leave. I say, "see you later," and he sort of grunts, but it's better than nothing. I know he loves me. I'm all he has, after all.

The mission for today is to go on a basic run. We're in need of some aluminum foil; it's useful stuff, but in particular we need it for the backup solar water purification system. Fancy sounding, I know, but really it's just a triangular shaped device with a pan of water at the bottom, sun heats up the water off the reflective foil, it condenses up on to the slanted glass and runs down into the collection tray. Simple and effective. Right now, clean drinking water is number one priority, and we've got filters and things like that which we use on the rainwater collection, but you just never know what kind of stuff is in the rainwater. So I like to boil it all, just in case and then store it for use later. And the solar purification is nice because that condensed water will always be pure enough to drink.

So while Bronx is holding down the fort, working on his aim with that bow and arrow we found at the sporting goods store a few months ago, I'll be looking for aluminum foil. It also never hurts to be on the lookout for canned goods or for pigeons. That's right, I said pigeons. They're pretty good, actually, once you get over the fact that New Yorkers have called them flying rats for so long now. Plus it's fresh meat. Nice change-up from the pretty weak vegetables I manage to grow out in the courtyard.

Anyway, the run goes off without a hitch, no problems at all, up until I get to the grocery store. I've taken a lot of stuff from this grocery store, it's one of those hidden places, sort of on a back street and in between a couple of restaurants so that you really have to squint to see it. All I'm looking for is salt. That's all I wanted. Maybe some velveeta. Nothing huge really. I've already got my bag half-full of aluminum foil, electric tape, some ace bandages, hydrogen peroxide, and a really nice find of various pharmaceuticals. Had to break open a cabinet for that. Oh, and some feminine products. The world might have gone to hell, but menstruation continues. The joys of being female with a uterus.

But this fucking walker just _had_ to be in the same grocery store as me. Just had to be. Why? Why couldn't there be just one run where I don't encounter anyone at all?

There's barely any light left in the grocery store, as it's hidden between skyscrapers and the afternoon light is fading, but I don't want to use the flashlight yet, so I'm squinting in the semi-darkness. It scares the bejeezus out of me while I was bending down, scraping around on the bottom shelf and looking for some salt. All I could find so far was rock salt, which I think has rocks in it? And the only use I know of for it is to make ice cream. And we don't have a cow, so I don't need the rock salt. Anyway, my eye catches that famous little logo, you know the one with the little girl and the umbrella? So I go to reach for it and, naturally, something grabs me from behind.

"FUCK!" I yell, my hand losing its grip on the salt and instead going for the gun at my hip. I launch sideways to get out of the monster's reach and slide along the dusty tile on my ass. As I'm skidding backwards, it's like slow motion, and I can't help but think that having these dreams and not getting any sleep is having a negative effect on me. Maybe I'll make a new rule.

_**Rule #13 - CRAZY-ASS DREAMS ARE UNLUCKY**_

So the zombie is tripping over itself towards me, eyes rolling around in its head at the prospect of some fresh meat, and I take aim. My breath catches in my throat for just a split second, and I'm doubting if I'll have time to actually pull the trigger before this fucker is on top of me, digging into its late lunch of my flesh. But then . . .

BAM!

One shot is all it takes. One clear shot to the head and its skull snaps back on its rotting neck and it falls sideways, right next to me and far too close for comfort. I roll away from it and stand up, knowing damn good and well that the noise will draw more of them here and knowing that I have to hurry. I look down at the guy. It was a guy, I think. Its face is so deformed and decayed now that it's hard to tell. And god, the smell.

It's worse than the latrine. I consider leaving it on the floor as is, but then I think better of it. There's a rule for this after all. A very good rule, if I do say so myself. Because once, I was satisfied that a zombie was dead after I had only shot it once. A few seconds later, as I walked away, it started crawling back towards me again, unable to moan because I had shot its throat off and it almost got my leg. When I fired the second shot in between its eyes, I decided that some of the rules in the movie are there for a reason.

_**Rule # 2 - DOUBLE-TAP**_

So I fire again, once more into the head just to be sure, the shot rings out loud and jarring, and I leave my weapon unholstered. Bending down once more, I scoop up the salt container into my pack and take off at a brisk jog back out into the street. And sure enough, all the noise has drawn the attention of around fifteen walkers, stumbling and shuffling towards their potential source of food for the day. But I don't plan on sticking around for dinner, so I run the other direction, towards Central Park and into the relative safety of the woods near Jackie O Lake.

This isn't far from our apartment and I come up with a loose plan in my head to shake off the zombie parade I've accidentally acquired. But first, I need to let the kid know I'm on my way back. I unclip the walkie talkie from my hip and turn up the volume as I run. Depressing the button, I speak into it.

"Boston to Bronx, over."

He comes back almost immediately, and I'm sure he's been bored to tears back there, with only a couple books he has yet to read and a bow and arrow to waste the day away. "I read you Boston, go ahead."

"Retrieved the package, en route to base, over."

I can just see him smiling at my reluctant acceptance of this police jargon. It seemed silly at first, because there's no one listening to us speak on the radio, no one to keep our activities secret from. But he likes it. So, whatever.

"Roger that, Boston. Rule #3, over and out."

Smiling as I slow down to a walk, I replace the radio and look back behind me. No walkers in sight. Excellent.

And then, I catch sight of something out of the ordinary. Something that doesn't look right at all. I blink my eyes and squint into the trees and around the water's edge.

What in the hell?

It looks like a man walking from tree to tree, trying to be stealthy but doing a poor job of it. Dressed in all black and moving like a regular person, the only reason he catches my attention is because he isn't quite moving like a walker. And besides the kid, I haven't seen a live person in months. I wait, slide around behind a tree of my own and poke my head back out to get another look.

You've got to be shitting me.

There he goes again, darting to the next tree, looking my way and trying hard not to be seen, although it's hard with the black. At least I'm partially camouflaged. What the hell does this guy think he's doing?

And then it gets worse. He notices me noticing him, so he walks slowly out from behind the tree, one hand raised and the other grasping at his upper arm. He's sort of stumbling, as if he's been injured. Shit.

And then it gets even worse than that. As he gets closer, maybe fifty yards from me, I clutch my weapon, squeezing the butt of the gun tightly, ready to kill him if I need to. And then he yells out something that jars me to my core. Chill bumps run up and down my back, making all my hairs stand on end.

"Emma!"

No fucking way.

I keep my head craned around the tree, just staring at him because I can't believe what he just said. First of all, I don't know this guy, and he just broke Rule #35. And second of all, we have another rule for a situation like this.

_**Rule #9 - DON'T TRUST WEIRD DUDES**_

Especially dudes dressed in black leather, looking like Severus Snape and waving their arms around and yelling to high heaven, drawing the attention of every walker in a five mile radius. That's right, he's now waving his arms at me, still walking towards me and yelling at the top of his lungs. Does he not know that he's attracting the hungry attention of zombies?

I need a better vantage point, and the tree to my left looks good enough, so I duck down behind it and let my mind go back to the first of all. Which is: how the hell does this guy know my name?

All of my friends are dead, or undead, my old coworkers, my old foster parents from Oregon. Well, I'm not sure about that last part, but they were weak, mean-spirited people so it's likely that they've been eaten by zombies. Is it bad to hope they have? Anyway, no one knows my real name except Hen-I mean Bronx.

My old name. He's getting closer, and still I haven't seen a weapon, but that could easily be a trick. He could have been watching me, watching us, for days. But the name is still jarring. We haven't spoken our names to anyone for months. Do I actually know him?

I decide to take a chance and turn around everything I've ever learned about staying alive. In this case, the best defense is going to have to be an offense. So I stand up straight and swing myself around the tree, taking steps towards him with my gun drawn and a cold look on my face. I won't hesitate to kill him if I have to. Even though he seems to be human and there aren't many humans left and it's really the zombies I should be killing. If it means protecting my kid, then I'll kill him right here and now.

"Don't come any closer," I say loudly and he does what I tell him, keeping one hand up and the other on his arm. He looks surprised that I don't recognize him I guess and he just stands there, with his ghost white face and dark eyes. They're actually really dark eyes, in fact . . . is that eyeliner?

And then suddenly he collapses. Just crumples to the ground and is now lying on his side, eyes closed, injured arm against the ground. I can see now that he's lost a lot of blood. He's still pale, and a pool of dark blood is spreading on the pavement beneath his dark leather. It flows downhill into the grass and contrasts sharply with the bright green. I'm pretty sure dark blood isn't good. I'm also pretty sure it's arterial blood. Really important blood. And besides that, what kind of idiot wears dark leather at the beginning of April and in the middle of the world ending?

I guess the same kind of idiot who gets bitten by a zombie and then calls out my name and expects me to help him.

Well shit.

I guess I'm an idiot as much as he is, because I've got to help him. So I bend down, still holding my gun to him, because it could be a trick. The leather crinkles in my hands as I give him a brief patdown, but the only weapon I can find is a long sword attached to his hip. What the hell? Why a sword and not a gun?

I've heard of people with machetes, even long knives. But I've never actually seen it. Anyway, he looks like he's about to die, so I'm not too worried about him waking up to slice my neck open. Using my knee to roll him over onto his back, he lets out a strangled sort of groan and his eyes flutter open. They dart around for a moment before landing on me and my idiot-concerned face.

"Swan, you've got to help me."

First name _and_ last name. Mother . . . I narrow my eyes at him, my hand goes to his neck, squeezes, and I'm just about to choke the rest of his dying British-accented breaths from his body. But before I do that, I want an answer.

"I'm not even sure I want to know how you know my name, but I do want to know if you've been bitten."

He shoots me a confused look, an unconvincing confused look. "Bitten?"

And he either catches the uncompromising look in my eyes or he knows instinctively that being bitten is a bad thing, because he doesn't seem to understand any of the other rules of New York City Zombieland.

"No, of course I haven't been bitten." But he's lying, of course. I can see it in his eyes. He looks scared to death and the fact that a zombie attacked him probably isn't helping his clueless situation. Unfortunately for him though, he's going to die and turn because of that bite, and there's nothing I can do to help him. I think he recognizes this conclusion in my expression as well, while I look up and down his body, shaking my head that I have to end a human's life before he turns into a non-human and comes back to eat me.

"It's okay," he says raspily, struggling to hold his head up to look in my eyes. "Nothing bad will happen."

I think he's actually a crazy person, so I ignore him and find purchase under his back so that I can flip him onto his other side and see how bad the damage is. He groans painfully again when I do this, and I can see why. There's a big chunk of skin and muscle and tendon torn out of his left deltoid. My fingers squeeze along his lower arm muscles, feeling for more damage and trying to determine if he's still got feeling down there. His eyes scrunch together in pain and it's obvious that he feels all of this. Finally my hand gets down to his gloved hand and when I squeeze it, it's unyielding. Like wood.

"What the hell?"

He looks down at his hand in mine and gives a lopsided smile. "It's a false hand, love. I lost it years ago."

I nod, although it's weird feeling a fake hand where a real hand should be, and let go of him. There's only one way to go about this that I can think of. It's either this or shooting him in the head right now. So I holster my weapon. Reaching around to my backpack, I feel around until my hand closes around the handle of my knife and I unsheathe it quickly. His eyes go wide at the sudden appearance of the blade.

"What's that for?"

"If you want to live, I'm gonna have to cut your arm off."

I didn't think it was possible with all the blood he's already lost, but his face turns even more white. "You're going to what? No!" His pitch raises at least two octaves and he starts trying to squirm away from me. But I grab hold of the offending arm and try to keep him still.

"No!" he cries. "I need that arm!"

I shake my head, but his other hand comes around and grasps my arm, staying the knife for a moment. "I really don't think you do. You don't even have a hand."

"That doesn't mean the arm itself isn't useful! Swan, please. Don't do this."

And that's the final straw for me. I really want to know how he knows my name, because he is sort of familiar to me. It's like those times when you meet someone and you're sure you've met them before but you really haven't. Like if the Hindus are right and we've been reincarnated, I probably knew him in a past life.

"How do you know my name?" I whisper it fiercely, afraid of the reply because I know he's going to say something like, oh yes, I've been watching you for weeks, months even, and now I know where your son is and he's going to die next.

"Because I know you. Or I did, before you lost your memories."

My head shakes quickly. What?

"What memories?" But he's having a hard time focusing due to the fact that he's dying on the paved ground right in front of me.

"Please don't cut off my arm," he mutters, his voice growing fainter.

I can't help my scoff. "You're kidding right? A whole year of these monsters, people, friends turning when they're bitten. You're going to turn too."

"No," he shakes his head. "I'm not. It's just a bite. Please, Swan."

"Don't _fucking_ call me that!"

He balks at the language, at the ferocity. "Are you from Mars or something?" I emphasize my words slowly for him, because he seems sort of dense. "If you get bitten, you _will_ turn into one of them!"

But all he can do now is shake his head. I don't know what's wrong with me. Something definitely is. I should have just left him there. Shot him between the eyes when I had the chance and left him there to rot. But that's not what I do. As hard as I try to be, that's not me.

I allow myself to trust him for a moment. "Tell me your name," I say quietly, leaning closer to him, replacing my knife back into my pack.

"Ki . . ." he starts to say, but I shake my head vigorously, cutting him off, knowing exactly what he'll do. When he turns, I want my mind to go to a place, not a face with a name and a family and a past.

"No first names. Towns. States. Places you used to love but can't anymore because the world's gone to shit."

"What's yours then?" he says quietly, allowing his eyes to close for a moment.

"Boston."

"All right then," he nods, accepting that. "I'll be Jolly Roger."

My mouth drops open just a little. Say what?

"Seriously?" I say, aware that he's a little loopy due to his dying and all, but that's it? That's the best he has? "And next you're going to tell me that you're Captain Hook."

But the look on his face says it all. Oh fuck me sideways.

He really is crazy.

"There's only one thing left to try," he says and I can barely hear him, so I lean down closer to catch whatever it is he's mumbling on about and then something _really_ crazy happens. And it happens so fast I don't have time to react and stop him.

He lunges up in one final surge of energy, closing the distance between us in about a half-second. And before I know it, his mouth is on mine and he's kissing me. It doesn't last longer than it takes him to actually make contact. I pull back right away, because he tastes like blood and salt water and his scruffy beard scratched me and the whole damn thing caught me by surprise. And I don't like being caught by surprise.

My closest hand comes up to push him by the chest until he's back on the ground, gasping for breath and grimacing in pain from that last exertion. Captain Crazy Hook, meet the ground. I come damn close to punching him in his stupid, offensive mouth, but I hold myself back. He is dying after all. Although that doesn't make taking a kiss from me without asking warranted.

"What the hell?"

Again, he looks confused. Like he was expecting any other outcome than outrage on my part. Really?

"You still don't remember," his color fades even more as he slumps back, defeat painting his features.

"Remember what?" I ask angrily, sitting back on my haunches to create some distance between us. "You're crazy!"

I stand up, about to just say fuck it all and walk away from him, leave him to die and turn and deal with the consequences later. But as I straighten my back and adjust my vision to the nearest street, I see something else out of the ordinary. Oh come on.

This is getting ridiculous.

* * *

_A/N - So for this chapter, I know a lot of SQ fans refuse to read anything with Hook in it, seeing as he's a sketch-fest misogynistic pig, but I assure you, he's not the main character here (I'd like to fix what the show fucked up when it comes to certain characters) and Emma will put him in his place every time he steps out of line. If you want to back out now because of his involvement, okay that's fine, it was good while it lasted, but to everyone else, thanks for sticking around. _


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N - used a bunch of stuff from the episode here, sorry, but it works nicely with the plot of my story. thanks for reading!**

* * *

**Enchanted Forest, August 2012**

The castle is just over the mountain; they've traveled several miles already but have at least the rest of the day ahead of them before they reach the outer boundaries of Regina's castle. It's strange to Regina, how disinterested she is in her surroundings, the dull, bleary way she regards the world. As opposed to the mostly optimistic, cheery outlook everyone in the traveling party seems to have. The air here is fresher, less smoggy, not quite as fishy as the salty breeze in Storybrooke. The trees seem greener and the ground more springy with life and potential.

But all Regina can feel is her heart, all she can focus on is the fact that she won't be seeing any more of this cheerfulness soon. Soon enough, her eyes will be closed for a long, long time and she won't have to listen to any of these people anymore. Hearing them talk about Storybrooke is the worst part, but she tries her best to ignore them, to tune them out and focus on her pain, because that's the only thing that matters. She doesn't have Henry and that's all she needs to know.

Suddenly there's a commotion nearby in the brush. Snow, who's walking next to her and obviously paying closer attention to to their surroundings, grabs hold of her arm and stops her, effectively halting everyone behind them.

"Did you hear that?" she asks quietly and everyone hushes up, an eerie silence follows, punctuated only by birds chirping in nearby branches and the faint rustle of the wind through the leaves. "There was something there, in that bush."

Regina pauses and stares at the bush in question. Charming draws his sword, hero that he is, ready to do battle with whatever it is, probably a rodent of some sort, Regina thinks. Regina rolls her eyes and steps up to the bush, pressing her hand into the still damp leaves and spreading them to look inside.

"There's nothing here," she says dully. "Unless it flew away."

Snow's eyes go to the sky and she points, drawing her arrow and notching it to her bow. "It did!" she yells, taking a step back and preparing to let loose her arrow.

She hesitates as the beast accelerates backs towards them, but it's difficult to see what it is because the sun is directly behind it. It most certainly has wings and is much larger than any bird that typically exists in this land. It descends upon them faster and faster until Regina is almost certain it's coming right for her. "Shoot it!" Charming yells urgently, and Regina guesses that Snow was simply making sure that it wasn't some sort of friendly beast. Typical of her.

Snow lets the arrow fly and it grazes the beast on its neck, throwing it off balance, but the creature isn't deterred. It comes back around, flapping its enormous dark wings and is heading straight for Regina, she sees that now. Its sharp claws reach out for her.

"We need to find cover," Snow yells, dodging to the side and making to pull Regina with her. But the she stands her ground, holding out her hand and feeling entirely finished with this entire mess.

"No," she says firmly. "I don't run from monsters. They run from me." She lets loose the blue fireball and barely misses.

Hmm, she thinks. Must be out of practice. But it's too late to do anything else, for Charming to even swing his sword once, because the monkey, that's what it looks like up close now, with gleaming red eyes and razor-like teeth, has grabbed her arm.

And up, up she goes.

It lifts her up into the sky. Its claws certainly are sharp, sharper than she thought they would be, as they dig cruelly into her skin and draw blood.

Just as she feels her feet leaving the ground, a pair of strong hands grabs her legs and pulls in the opposite direction, and the feeling of being tortured on a medieval rack device crosses her mind. She looks down, sees Snow White tugging at her legs and almost wants to laugh, because Snow could just as easily let her be carried off by the beast and never be heard from again. That would solve their problems of having to deal with an evil queen that nobody wants around.

But no, Snow pulls harder and down she goes. The monkey screeches in protest, but releases her arm, finding its balance again as it prepares for a third strike. It perches up in a high tree branch for a moment and Regina has crumpled to the ground next to Snow. She spares the infuriatingly angelic faced woman a sideways glance, debating about saying thank you, perhaps later. The monkey has recovered from the harsh treatment and coils its muscles on the branch. Charming steps up, swings his sword around his shoulder in that annoying gesture of swordsmanship, and Regina struggles to get to her feet as she looks down to her now bloody arm.

And just as the monkey dives again, headed directly for her, another arrow flies out of nowhere and hits the creature solidly on the shoulder, diverting it from its course again. This time, it's had enough, and the flying beast takes to the air with its partially crippled shoulder, struggling to lift itself up higher, until it gets some momentum and is at last out of firing range. It heads off in the direction they're headed, towards Regina's castle, she notes, registering now the searing pain in her arm.

A man steps from behind a tree, with several other men, dressed similarly and following him. His hair is dark, his eyes however are sort of a dark blue-grey. He looks strong and fit, and Regina is annoyed already.

He reaches down to help Regina stand up, but she ignores the hand, pushing herself to her feet and brushing her leather pants off. Undeterred, the man looks from Regina back up to the sky and to Regina again, noting the injury on her arm. Cradling it to her body, she covers up the bleeding hastily.

"M'lady," he says, with his hand still outstretched and a concerned expression. "You're injured."

"It's 'Your Majesty'," she growls testily, because even if she's going to hand the reins of the kingdom over to Snow and Charming and take a long sleep, that doesn't mean she won't demand the respect of her subjects while they roam her lands. "And I'm fine."

His eyebrows fly up to his hairline, not used to being spoken to in this matter by the look of things. "A simple thank you would suffice."

"I didn't ask for your help," Regina says, and notes that neither Snow nor Charming are asking for thank yous. Snow, however, still on the ground, because Charming is looking around for another attack from a flying monkey, reaches up and takes his offered hand.

"Well, I'm grateful for the assistance."

"Robin of Locksley," he says, with a slight bow to her as she straightens up and faces him.

"Snow White."

Eyebrows again raised, Robin looks impressed and inclines his head towards her with a grin. "You know, there was a time when our faces graced wanted posters side by side."

He frowns then, probably realizing who Regina must be if she wants to be referred to as 'Your Majesty'. His right hand man realizes it at the same time and fails to keep his mouth shut like any decent and polite human being would.

"But if you're Snow White, why are you with _her_?" The large man nods at Regina, his face has confused written all over it. Regina can do nothing but scowl at him. A fireball might do the trick, to at least set his wild beard on fire, but she thinks better of it. It's not worth the effort.

"Show some respect," she says, looking him up and down. "I am still a queen."

"You'll have to excuse Little John," Robin says quickly, ready to defend his man. "But before your curse, we spent many a day running from your black knights."

Regina shrugs, because she didn't simply send out her knights on frivolous missions, having them run willy-nilly around the kingdom to terrorize helpless people. That only happened when people refused to tell her Snow White's whereabouts. She almost cringes at the thought of all those people in the village, dead on her command. Almost.

"I'm sure you deserved it."

At that, Charming rests a supportive hand on his wife's back, checking to make sure she's okay, then steps in and looks back up at the sky. "What was that thing?"

"No idea," Robin says. "Never encountered one like it before."

"We'll need to keep a close watch out for the rest of the journey," Charming says.

"Where are you headed?" Robin says curiously, casting an eye over their now travel-weary group. Life in the Land Without Magic has made most of them soft.

Before Regina can tell him to shut his trap, and that they really don't even know this newcomer and his men, and that trusting him with their intentions is probably not a good idea, Charming reveals himself to be trusting and naive. Again.

"To our castle," he says confidently. "We've just arrived from the Land Without Magic and we'd like to get back to our own kingdom as quickly as possible."

Regina is thankful that his daughter takes more after Snow than Charming. She at least is careful about who she trusts. And that will serve her well as Henry's mother. Her heart pangs again.

"Ah yes," Robin says and looks around the group, finding a couple of familiar faces in the small crowd. Neal and Belle step up and greet him, exchanging hugs and hellos and how are yous and Regina wants to vomit.

"I think," Belle says after everyone has become reacquainted. "I have an idea as to what that creature probably was."

Regina knows exactly where she's headed because she might venture to say that Henry consumed books throughout his young life in the same way that this woman has. There was nothing Henry loved more than a good bedtime story real aloud by his mother, something with adventure and a hero or heroine and a happy ending.

"There's only one place monkeys like that come from, and that's Oz."

"Oz?" Snow's face scrunches up. "You mean the yellow brick road and Dorothy and the Wizard?"

Belle nods stoically, and Regina can guess why. "So if there are flying monkeys, that means they've been sent by only one person."

"You can't mean the Wicked Witch?" Grumpy butts in, looking as surprised as everyone else. How they all manage to live in complete ignorance of other worlds is beyond Regina. There's a Wonderland and a Land Without Color and a Land Without Magic, so of course there would be an Oz.

"Is she sending these monkeys through a portal from Oz to here?" Neal asks, face lighting up with hope. Regina shakes her head.

"Probably not. It looked like the flying beast was headed back towards my castle."

"Our castle," Snow says quietly, and Regina spares her another sideways glance.

"And it looked to me," Robin says, also staring Regina down. "Like the monkey was intent on one particular person."

"Great," the pirate grumbles. Hook stares at her. "So the Wicked Witch is after the Evil Queen. What did you do to this one?"

Frowning and looking perplexed, Regina holds her hands up. Not every evil person is that way because of things Regina did. And not all of the problems stem directly from her. Other people, like Rumpelstiltskin for one, had spoons in the pot as often as she did, if not more. "This time, nothing. I've never even met her."

"No personal vendetta," Charming says with a shocked expression. "Wow."

Regina has the decency, in her opinion, not to fry him on the spot and ignores him instead. "Anyway, if this Wicked Witch is indeed in the castle, we'll need to do something about that."

"Right," Snow says, gazing off into the direction of the mountain and the lake. "We'll continue our journey there and if it's too dark, we'll make camp on the outskirts and decide what to do in the morning."

"I'd rather sleep in my own bed," Regina says grumpily.

"Yes, well," Robin nods. "Sherwood Forest is nearby, and you are all more than welcome to join me and my merry men there for the night."

"Do you have weapons?" Charming asks, eyes shining with the promise of adventure and battle. Robin nods and his men look as excited as Charming. Regina concedes that they must be bored here without any black knights to chase them around, something she could remedy if she had the will to do it.

-  
Continuing their journey, Regina and Snow walk side-by-side and the former queen marvels at the small progress they've made together, even after everything. Even after Snow was responsible for murdering Cora. Even after they fought in Neverland and debated what would be best for Henry. And especially when Snow helped find her while Greg tortured her, and when Snow didn't hesitate to stand by her side when they scoured Neverland for her son. This feels like progress, and it's good, but it doesn't really matter.

Robin, Neal, and Belle are all walking up ahead, reminiscing about old times before and during the curse when they crossed paths, and Regina watches them closely. She wants to make sure Neal doesn't try and come up with a harebrained way to get back to Emma and Henry. Snow watches Regina as carefully as she watches the three people up ahead. And when Regina feels those eyes on her and looks over at Snow, the woman smiles, and Regina can see the young, bright faced girl from their past, excited and practically salivating for her future. How much different that future could have been if Snow's mother had lived. But, Regina chastises herself, all of those events led her to Henry, and she wouldn't trade those years for anything in any world.

She needs something to take her mind off her son and the pain caused by his absence. "So, what do you think of our new friend? Can we trust him?"

Snow contemplates it for a moment before Regina goes on. "He is a thief."

"Well," Snow says thoughtfully. "Think of it from his perspective. How do you think he looks at you?"

So true, Snow White. So true. "Point taken," Regina says simply, because she knows all too well how people perceive her.

"He is kind of cute, isn't he?" Snow asks, almost mischievously and Regina frowns.

"He smells like forest."

No, there's no time for dalliances with common thieves, or anyone for that matter. All there's time for is getting to the castle, figuring out what this Wicked Witch person is doing there, and then getting to cast a spell upon herself.

The Storybrooke party grows closer and closer to Regina's castle, every step getting more and more difficult because it's been at least ten miles since they saw Phillip and Aurora. Regina begins to notice signs and markers, certain trees and paths that look familiar. It's a strange feeling, being back here after so long. Being back after having the modern amenities of Storybrooke like cars and electricity and running water and telephones is going to be the part that takes the longest to get used to, she knows that.

More prominent in her mind are the memories of this place, of coming here as little more than a woman to marry a man she did not love, of living stashed away in this castle, depressed and forced to lie in his bed with him at night. The memories of what she did to Snow, having her father killed in a circular sort of way, taking over the castle and the kingdom and vowing to end Snow White for good.

There was so much hatred and need for vengeance inside her that Regina finds it difficult to want to be in the castle again. Yes, she had taken away their happy endings, hoping to get rid of Charming, hoping that Snow would feel loss like she did for Daniel. And she had tried to come after their daughter, the product of true love, but that didn't work out well for her. All of that to take away Snow's happy ending and it had led her to more loneliness and despair. Which in turn led her to Henry.

It wasn't all for nothing. But being back here has turned the tables. She's come full circle and hates every step.

The castle looms in front of them, as sharp and austere as ever, and Regina wonders if she should actually feel something for it. Any feeling other than heartache would be welcome, but she knows that won't happen.

Everything looks the same as they approach the gatehouse, if a little overgrown and unkempt. But that's to be expected after thirty years of neglect, Regina supposes. Nothing a little magical pruning won't take care of, and then she remembers. She won't be around to need to do anything like that. No, the fact that her castle is a mess doesn't matter anymore. The gatehouse is unmanned of course, but the entire party realizes that danger is lurking nearby, seeing as the flying monkey took off in this direction earlier. And the fact that the daylight is growing less and less, the day passing quickly into evening is not missed. Exploring a previously abandoned and possibly now occupied castle in the dark is not something to be taken lightly. "Wait, Regina," Charming says and she stops, turning to look back at him while the rest of the group waits expectantly. "We should have a plan, you know, in case the Wicked Witch is in there somewhere."

"If she is," Regina says with half of a tight smile, because she has to put on a face for these people until she can manage to be by herself. "I fully intend on finding out why. But there's no way she could have gotten in," Regina says simply, turning her head to stare up at the huge stone walls protecting her castle. "I sealed the entire place before the curse."

"Well, just in case, I think we still need a plan."

Regina rolls her eyes. "Fine," she says, standing down and waiting while Snow and Charming discuss a plan of action; while Robin, the smelly man, inputs his thoughts at different points. Regina doesn't care what the plan is, she simply wants to go find a place for her heart and then take a nap.

"Okay. Here's what we'll do," Snow looks at Regina and Robin and then over to Charming. "We four will go inside, make sure everything is okay, and if it is, we'll send the word down here that everyone can come inside."

"That's a terrible idea," Regina scoffs, looking between them. "I should go alone, make sure things are okay, and then I'll send the word."

"No, Regina" Charming says, and his tone borders on patronizing. "You can't go in alone. It's possibly dangerous."

"So?" Regina asks, because does anyone really care if some harm becomes of her?

"No, that's not happening," Snow says. "We're going together."

Regina wonders how this woman was a teacher in her town for thirty years if she doesn't even understand the line of succession from the Constitution. This journey seems to is turning out to be a perpetual eye roll. "Think of it this way," Regina says. "If all four of us go, and we all get killed by some unknown force, who then will rule all these people?"

"That's not going to happen," Snow says confidently.

"Fine. But your heads are not on me."

The rest of the party stays outside the gate, and several of Robin's men set up a perimeter, keeping watch while the leaders take a look inside. The front gate is closed tightly, sealed, Regina remembers well, by her own blood magic. But as they approach the door, something feels off. Apparently it isn't as tightly sealed as she thought. As they step up to the door, Regina can see that it's cracked open a bit, as if someone had just left it ajar not a minute before. But that simply can't be. She sealed it.

"That's not possible," she says quietly, pausing at the door.

"What's wrong?" Snow asks, staring at the partially opened door next to her. "Someone opened the door."

"Didn't you say something about blood . . "

"Yes, blood magic."

"Perhaps you left it unlocked," Robin suggests, trying to be helpful, Regina is sure, but all it manages to do is grate on her nerves. "No," she says carefully, the image of standing in front of this entrance and drawing her own blood to cast the spell is still vivid in her mind. "I sealed it with blood magic and I don't have any living relatives, so I'm the only one who can open it."

"Apparently not," Robin says. "This Wicked Witch must be a formidable foe."

Regina ignores him, knowing that he's right, that if someone can break her blood magic spell, they must be the most powerful in this land. And there was no one more powerful than Rumpelstiltskin that she knew of in all the realms.

Inside the castle, things are much the way she left them. Dark stone, clammy, almost like a dungeon, and a heavy layer of dust covers all surfaces. There are touches of comfort, she reminds herself, because not everything had to be about loneliness and cold and darkness. Rugs from her mother's house adorn the some of the hallways, a few paintings she admired over the years. Most of snow's family heirlooms, she had moved down into the basement and dungeons, not wanting to be associated with any of that side of the family. She's sure Snow notices that fact as they walk with echoing footsteps through the front hall.

"So," Regina says. "Should we split up, make sure the coast is clear? Meet back here in ten minutes?"

Charming contemplates this, stares at her for a moment and nods. "I suppose that would be the fastest way to make sure no one is here."

"There may not be anyone here now," Regina says. "But there certainly has been someone here recently. I'll take the downstairs area, and the rest of you can decide what you want to explore after that."

Snow eyes her suspiciously, realizing that she has an agenda probably, but can't do anything about it except agree to explore a different part of the castle. It must be strange for her to be back here as well after all this time, and to see it changed so much from her childhood home.

As Regina explores the downstairs area and makes her way down to the crypt, she encounters the second blood sealed door that has been broken into. It simply doesn't make any sense. How could someone break this barrier? How could a person or sorcerer be that powerful? Does the wicked witch possess that sort of unrivaled expertise? Regina summons magic to the tips of her fingers, ready to defend herself if she needs to against whomever might be lurking in her crypt. But there is no one there.

She looks around, deciding that this is as good of a place as any to leave her heart. Next to her mother and father and amongst all the other hearts Cora and Regina both had taken throughout their lives. She's pondering exactly where she should put it when she hears Snow calling out for her from the stairs.

"Regina," she says, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "You still down there?"

Regina rolls her eyes. "Yes," she calls back, abandoning for now her attempt to get rid of this pain. She'll have to do it later, when everyone is preoccupied with other matters. And there will certainly be more pressing matters than keeping up with the Evil Queen. Where will all the people stay, what will they eat? What will they do for work? How will their society start up again?

Regina knows it's going to take time and solid leadership, but she wants no part of it. It was exhausting enough, giving all these people new memories and places to live and jobs in Storybrooke. Anything else now is too much.

She reluctantly joins Snow on the stairs and they climb together to the main hall, where Robin and Charming are waiting.

"Find anything?" she asks, knowing that they didn't, for they wouldn't be standing here with her if they did.

"Nothing," Charming says and Robin shakes his head.

"All right then," Regina says. "I guess it's safe enough for now. Someone's been here, but they've cleared out."

"So, the witch can show up whenever she likes? She can break your barrier and pop in to see us with no announcement?" Robin asks. Regina shrugs. It's not really her concern. These people wanted to come back here, so here they are, dangers or not.

"I suppose so, but she must have been looking for something, and perhaps she found it and moved on. And I suppose it's time to let in the masses, then?" Regina says dully, finding the nearest chair and collapsing heavily into it. Walking all day has done a number on her feet.

"I'll go get them," Charming says and Regina can feel both Robin and Snow watching her, taking in her demeanor and the fact that she doesn't seem to care about anything. "Is everything okay, Regina?" Snow asks, hesitantly, and in her eyes, Regina can see that she knows everything isn't really okay, but she does look concerned. Ah well, if she must put on a face for the sake of the others' sanity, so be it.

"Everything is fine," she says, aiming for a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. "If you discount the fact that I no longer have Henry."

"Who is Henry?" Robin asks quietly and Snow shoots him a quick look. Regina's heart pangs again. "My son," she says, gritting her teeth.

Robin keeps his mouth shut, taking the hint from Regina to shut his trap and from Snow that probably she will tell him about it later.


	5. Chapter 5

_New York City, April 1, 2013_

* * *

I've gone months without seeing another human besides the kid and then on none other than goddamned April Fool's Day, not one, but two crazily dressed people come my way. Maybe this is another dream. I'm tempted to try pinching myself so that I can wake up, but I've got the eerie feeling that this is indeed real life. And then there **you** come, jogging towards us, so I take a step back and pull my gun again, ready to take you out if I need to.

You get closer and closer and you look from me to Crazy Hook and then back up to me, and your expression seems as bewildered as his was. Not to mention that fact that you're disheveled, and you also seem out of breath and a little pissed off as you come to a stop next to his prone figure. You must not be aware of Rule #1.

Hands go to your hips and I can't help but look you up and down. Leather breeches, riding boots, and a white, sort of flowy shirt. Vest on top, and a long chain with a silvery trinket of some sort at the end of it. Dark, short hair that's looking like it's seen better days. You look like you're from the past. Or from the Princess Bride. Inconceivable, I know. But your eyes are the most haunting. Dark brown depths, like you've seen some really fucked up shit in your lifetime. You're dressed in the same style as this maniac, so automatically, my mind makes the connection and I know you're working together. Two crazies. Great. Happy April Fools to me.

Ignoring completely the gun pointed directly at your head, you stare down at the bleeding man and your hands shake with fury.

"Hook, you bastard, I told you to wait!" Your voice is shaking like your hands are and you keep your eyes on him for a moment longer, like you're trying to melt him with your gaze. "And now look, the undead are here too."

I hadn't noticed.

But now I do. My head swivels around to our right, where there's a big lawn overgrown with weeds and tall grass now because there's no one left to mow it, and there they are. Fucking zombies, lumbering towards us slowly from maybe a football field away, drawn to all the commotion and rule breaking.

When my eyes land on you again, you're staring right at me and I breathe in sharply at this strange sensation. It feels like Pavlov's dog, like a conditioned response where my heart clenches with fear and anger and something that resembles affection at the same time.

"Emma," is the word that I see leave your lips, but it can't be true. There's no possible way you know my name too. I shake my head. Thoughts rattle around in there but none of them compute. All I can think of is Rule #35 - no first names. And I don't have a rule for weird women dressed in weird clothing. Just weird dudes.

"No first names," I stutter, my head moving back and forth. "No. How the hell do you know my name?"

"Emma, what happened to him?" You're ignoring everything I'm saying and gesturing down to the crazy guy. He looks like he's passed out and now you're squatting down next to him, moving your hands erratically just above his injury.

"Don't call me that," is all I can say, although you're looking more and more flustered and desperate as the seconds go past. I should probably help you somehow, but I don't know what to do. "No first names."

Turns out he's not completely unconscious. "Please," he mutters. And you move your hands over the wound again, and there's the third out of the ordinary thing I've seen so far today. Damn it, what is that coming from your hands?

"What the hell?"

You glance up at me and then back down, concentrating on whatever it is that you're doing, but you look frustrated. Whatever it is, it's not working. These sparks and the subtle movement of crazy guy's leather-clad body make me think you're electrocuting him. But you've got nothing in your hands and there's no source of electricity out here in the park.

I'm staring at your hands and you're staring at your hands, and then you look up at me again, and something in your expression tells me you've made a decision. "It's weak here. . ."

The words tumble from your mouth, as if you're talking to yourself and not even aware of it. And the decisive moment returns. "Come here," you say, like it's an order that I can't refuse, like it's something you do every day, ordering strangers around and telling them to come close to two weirdos, one of whom is about to be a zombie in a matter of minutes.

So naturally, I hesitate, knowing it could be a trap, knowing that it probably is a trap.

You look like you know what you're doing. But you're crazy so there's no reason I should trust you. Why should I help a crazy person save another crazy person? What the hell am I thinking, why am I taking the three steps it takes to reach you and kneeling down at Jolly's side? What the hell is wrong with me?

But there's something in your eyes, your deeper-than-a-regular-person's-soul eyes, that makes me trust you for some reason. I know it's going to bite me in the ass. I just know it, but I lean forward anyway. And I can see that this isn't going to be good, and I can see sparks coming out of your hands and I don't know what you're trying to do. Shock him? It really does look like electrocution via one of those plastic science balls you see in the classroom where you touch it and the electrical currents shoot out to meet your hands. Some sort of conduction, I think. But that current comes from a battery, and your current is coming directly from your palms and fingers and it's bizarre and purple and like miniature lightning.

You and I are an arm's length apart now and you're still staring at me, still pleading with me to help you because he's close to death and there's not much time.

"Put your hands on mine." Another order, and strangely enough, even though I've never taken orders well from anyone in my entire life, I want to do what you say.

But I'm a little reluctant because you're probably going to shock me and kill me, but I do it anyway, because he's bleeding out and soon he'll turn and try to eat me and you both. It seems like you know this will happen because the expression on your face is riddled with all kinds of emotions. Surprise, desperation, and finally relief as I touch my palms to the back of your hands.

The effect is instantaneous. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. A buzz shocks through me, like I thought it would, except it's different. It's cold and surging and it flows through my body like I've got tiny bumble bees in my veins. And I can see the change in color and intensity of the current. It's sort of a blue-purple now and it's brighter. The sharp breath you inhale is audible, even over the thrumming of my heart and the roaring in my ears and the scraping of the zombie's feet in the grass as they get closer and closer to us.

We watch beneath our joined hands as the wound closes up beneath the ripped leather. A jagged toothy scar is now running down Jolly's arm, but it's closed and hopefully he's not going to die anymore. That was . . . well, that was fucking crazy. But there's no time to sit and ponder, even though all I want to do is sit and hold my head and rock back and forth because I think I've gone crazy now too. That couldn't be real.

I shoot to my feet, pulling on the guy's healed arm and you follow suit, tugging on his good arm. He stirs, shaking his head groggily, helping us drag him to his feet, weak still from the bite and opens his eyes. "Let's go." I say urgently, inclining my head towards the walkers because they're closing in on us now and I don't want to use my gun on them now out here in the open. I might attract more people dressed in leather who can do crazy things with electricity. You nod and Jolly nods and we set off at a slow pace until he gets his feet back under him.

Even though I'm in spectacular cardiovascular shape because that's Rule #1, I'm not used to supporting the weight of a fully grown fictional character and it takes its toll on me. You and I both are huffing and puffing as we weave in and out of trees, towards the street. And eventually, we get far enough out of the walker's reach and out of the park so that we can take a break behind a building. The walkers can't catch up to us, and they meander in a different direction, losing the scent and wandering away to search for another meal.

I'm bent over, catching my breath and after a moment, I look up at you and the crazy guy and you're doing the same. He still looks pale, and you don't look so good yourself, like maybe you haven't eaten in a couple of days. And of all the things I could ask about, there's really one question that's on the forefront of my brain. Apparently I have a little power in me, because you needed my help back there with the electricity. Whether that's measurable in Watts or Volts or Amps, I'm not really sure.

"What the hell was that? And why didn't I get a Hogwarts letter?"

The expression on your face is priceless. I didn't expect you to even know what I'm talking about, but your face breaks into a grin and you look down at the floor. The loony Roger guy on the other hand, doesn't have a clue. He stands up straight, closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the brick wall.

"What I'd like to know," you start, sending a pointed glare at the guy in black. "Is how the hell you ended up that way?"

I like the way that word forms on your mouth. Hell. It's nice. It's like you know what hell really feels like. The guy opens his eyes, rolls them, and stares straight ahead, not meeting your gaze.

"There was an unfortunate situation on the docks as I navigated out of Storybrooke."

A strange, half-laugh, half-cough escapes your throat and I watch as your rearrange your expression quickly into one of neutrality, waiting for the guy to continue.

"One of the undead had been wandering around there for some time, and seeing as I had no idea he was there, you can imagine my surprise when I opened a warehouse door and out he sprang to feast upon my arm."

Why he sounds like he's from the 19th century and straight out of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie, I'm not really sure. Maybe it's just part of his act. Maybe he was on Broadway at some point and he's just gone cuckoo since then. That would explain the eyeliner. But the conversation is moving on without me, so I refocus on what's being said.

"Serves you right, you insolent idiot."

"Now don't be cross, your majesty. I was simply taking the opportunity to give us both a chance to reach Swan as quickly as possible."

"Hey . . ." I start to protest, but you cut me off, tiring of my name game and give me a sharp stare. If I'm not mistaken, Jolly has just called you 'your majesty'. I tilt my head, trying to figure everything out, to no avail.

"I went into my house for ten minutes at the most, and that's all it took for you to take off without me in a sailboat!" You're practically hissing at him now, hackles raised and he leans away from you. And I'm afraid for the moment that if he's not careful, you're going to shock him back into his near-death state, even after going through all that to save him.

"I do apologize for the inconvenience, but what's done is done. And now that we're both here and safe with Ms. Swan, I think it's time to figure out how to get her memories back."

"You keep talking about these lost memories," I butt in, holding my hand up in protest, ignoring for the moment that he's said my name again. "But I haven't lost any memories."

Again with the glance, and it sort of makes me feel like I'm a moron when you look at me like that. But suddenly it softens and you take in my appearance, eyes roving over my grass and blood stained camouflage pants and tank and finally landing on my full backpack. I'm not sure what you're thinking, but at least it's not that 'you're an idiot' stare anymore, it looks more like you want to ask me something, but the eyeliner guy is talking again.

"I tried reviving her memories to no avail. Perhaps it didn't work because she's under a curse?"

You whirl on the leather-clad man and he practically cowers before you, taking another step backwards into the alley where we stand. "You did what?"

"If you're talking about that kiss, then yeah, it didn't work. At all," I say sarcastically, frowning at him and his scratchy beard. You look back at me, eyes trailing down to my lips and then back up to meet my gaze. And then you look at him and roll your eyes. "I already told you that wouldn't work, you idiot."

"It could have worked," he says. "It was worth trying anyway."

I'm still frowning, still unsure what that kiss has to do with returning my 'memories'. "I disagree."

You let a snort escape your nose and mouth and I almost laugh with you because it's sort of fun to watch yours and Jolly's interactions. Not to mention the fact that he wanted that kiss to be so much better than it was. And it just wasn't.

Anyway, it's getting close to dark now and I really don't want to be surprised by any more walkers. I've got what I came on the run for, and it's time to go back because my kid will be worried and somehow I gained a couple of crazies that I didn't come for, and so therein lies the dilemma. What do I do with these two?

Option A: leave without them, try and outrun them and lose them, hoping I don't eventually lead them back to my place and the kid.

Option B: take them back with me.

Option C: kill them.

I shake my head. No, can't kill them, so Option C is out. They're humans, some of the few left on earth, I'm sure. At least I think they're human.

There are bound to be some others, I know there are, actually, but they're all scared and distrusting and holed up and just like me.

And somehow you people are different. First of all, Roger knows my name and you know my name, but obviously you're not from here. These zombies seem to be a strange thing to you both. But I thought the plague of zombies had reached everywhere. So where are you from?

"Okay," I say, standing with my legs apart, arms crossed authoritatively, because this is my home turf, damn the fact that you've already intimidated me just a little. "I'm going to leave. You've got a few minutes to convince me why I should take you two with me."

You decide to go first, but you hesitate, like you're unsure if I'm going to believe what you're about to say. And judging by the things you two have said already, it's unlikely.

"We need your help. You've lost all your memories and that's why you don't remember us, but your parents are in trouble. Your town is in trouble."

Well that's a loaded string of sentences. All I can do is stare at you because that didn't make sense at all. The only person that needs me is the kid, and I haven't lost any memories, and I have no parents. And I'm already in my town and yes, obviously it's in trouble, but I'm dealing with it. But the last part didn't sound as truthful as the rest when you said it. It sounded like you added that part on.

Jolly Roger gives you a sharp look. He must know that last part was a lie. But the rest of it, somehow I don't think you're lying about that, especially not when your fingers wrap around the trinket around your neck. Something's got you worried. And I have a feeling it's not the zombies.

"Parents?" I question, eyebrow raised. "What parents? I'm an orphan."

You nod, patiently. "Yes, because they gave you up. Because they needed to give you your best chance. But you met them two years ago, before you lost your memories."

"That doesn't make sense," I argue. "How could I lose memories of only a year? That's not a thing!"

"It's true. And if Hook's kiss wouldn't bring your memories back, well," you send a sideways glance to the eyeliner guy. "That's not a bad thing in my book, but we'll have to figure out another way to do it. And my . . . I'm not my usual self now and I don't think I can do anything to help your memories."

Again with the kiss. Still not understanding. And what the hell are you even talking about?

"What? Are you a doctor or something?"

You shake your head, trying not to get impatient with me, but you manage not to give me the idiot glare again. "No, not a doctor, just . . . it's a long story." You shake your head. "It's not going to make any sense. It's going to sound crazy."

I scoff and the pirate guy is just standing over there with his arms crossed, watching the exchange nervously. "Lady, you already sound crazy!"

A deep breath of air fills my lungs as I try to prepare myself for what you're about to hit me with. "Just tell me who you think I am! Just go on and tell me and I'll listen."

You look at Jolly. He looks distraught and out of options and so he shrugs. You purse your lips together, preparing yourself, I suppose, for the big lie that's about to come out of your mouth.

"We're from a different world. A world where all the fairytales you've ever heard are true. And you're from that world too, that's why you have magic in you, because you're the product of true love." You say that last part bitterly, spitting it out of those red lips. I continue to listen, mouth open, eyes squinting, searching for the tell, searching for that one single hint that will tell me you're lying through your teeth. But I don't find it. What the hell.

"You're telling me I'm some sort of alien. A fairytale alien from a different world. And you two are aliens as well?"

The out-of-place dark hair around your face shakes back and forth. "Not aliens, just otherworldly. Although, I suppose that is a definition of alien."

"In any case," you go on, your voice low pitched and rumbly. "Your parents are in trouble, and our world is in trouble, and you're the only one left who can help us save it from utter destruction."

I nod slowly, although it still doesn't make sense. I've never been to another world in my whole life. You'd think I'd remember something as life altering as that. "And why me?"

Another look passes between you and the guy with the hook. Your look is dark and his is sort of moony-eyed. "Because you're the savior."

"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard."

"I knew you'd say that."

"And you've got magic," I say, not accusingly, but more matter-of-fact.

You nod, and you stare at me curiously, like I'm some bizarre work of art or a long-lost artifact in a museum. "Yes, but it's different here, not as strong."

"That's why you needed me to heal this guy?" I incline my head at they eyeliner dude and you nod. But that doesn't make sense either. I want to pace, but instead I start to walk off because you've just broken Rule #540 - No Fairytales along with pretty much all of my other rules without batting an eye. So I'm done with this. I'm done with you and my head hurts and this cannot be real.

But Jolly steps after me. "Wait!" he says, and I stop, turn reluctantly and look back between the two of you. You're hanging your head, looking like you're running out of options and then the Jolly guy says, "Just wait, I know it's getting dark, but we can show you something. Something that will make you believe us. But you'll have to have a little faith, Swan."

My eyes squeeze shut. "Damn it, stop that!"

"Sorry, love. But please, tomorrow, will you allow us to show you?"

My hands go to my hips first and then I gesture with one of them out into the street. "I'm not your love, and there probably won't be a tomorrow for you. You two won't make it through the night out here."

But the expression on your face tells me otherwise, and when you look over to Jack Sparrow, he's wearing the same expression. Seriously? is what is written all over your faces. Oh. Sometimes I forget that I live in the city and that not all people rely on buildings. Not that I couldn't survive in the wilderness. I can make a fire and kill an animal. Certainly can kill a zombie. But buildings are nice. Shelter is nice. And both of you are dressed in such strange fashions that it's hard not to judge based on appearance.

But you two did make it here, almost completely in one piece, from wherever you originated. Other worldly or not.

"Tell me your name," I say to you, and you're about to without hesitation, but just like I did for Captain Sparrow, I raise my hand and lower my head when you open your mouth. "I don't want to hear your real name. Towns, places. I'm Boston. He's Jolly Roger."

I just want to hear what town you come up with. You hesitate, thinking about it and finally you shrug and say, "Portland."

"Oregon or Maine?" I'm curious about that because I spent years in Oregon and met that bastard I don't like to talk about there, and you don't have any obligation to answer me, but you humor me anyway. "Maine," you say simply, and I take another deep breath. Maybe I should take up yoga to soothe my frazzled nerves.

"What?" You ask, watching my face closely.

I'm looking around now and I check my watch, solar powered, military grade, but it recently stopped receiving its radio signals for the atomic time when the whole world went to hell. It's still close anyway. You notice my behavior and it's like you know what I'm looking for. You've had this wary look about you this whole time, as if waiting for someone else to show up.

"Where's . . ." You hesitate without finishing your question, your red lips snap shut.

"Where's what?" I ask, because I can see something in your eyes and I don't like it. You know something. You know what I'm looking for, what I'm worried about. And after another moment's hesitation and deep searching of my face, you go for it.

"Your son. Where's your son?"

I blink.

My eyebrows furrow.

And then a string of expletives and questions flash through my mind. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. How do you know about him? Right away I realize that I was right about you two spying on me and the kid for weeks, months and now that I know that you know, I'm scared to death. And being scared puts me on the defensive. And being on defense makes me want to go to offense. I think I can take both of you on, even with your bizarre magic tricks and the guy with the fake hand and the sword. Can't forget about that. But I can still take you both. I've got the gun, after all.

And, right about then, I think it's thanks again to the dreams from last night, the dratted Rule #13 - Weird Dreams are Unlucky, the walkie talkie rumbles to life. Fucking hell.

_"Bronx to Boston. Bronx to Boston, over."_

I almost growl in frustration. Of all the damned timing, kid.

I look at you and you're staring at my side pocket, at the voice that's just come out of the device, eyes wide and face pale.

"It's okay," I say, because you look like either you've seen a ghost or you've never seen a two-way radio before, although I don't know why I'm trying to comfort you when it's me who needs comforting because I'm about to fall apart here. "It's just a radio."

"Henry," I see the word form on your lips but don't hear it come out. And I'm almost sure I'm mistaken. There's just no way you said what I think you said. It's like when you said my name but worse.

"What did you say?" Taking a step forward, I lean towards you to hear better, shifting and squeezing my hand tightly around the metal of my gun.

"I said Henry. Ou-" you pause, close your mouth and shake your head slightly, starting again. "Your son's name is Henry."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N – sorry for the wait. School started back up again and it's been crazy busy. So I used a bit of the dialogue from an episode here, with a few of my own twists. This part of the story will soon divert from canon. Enjoy! _

Soon enough, the rest of the Storybrooke townspeople are filing in the castle, looking around with obvious fear and vivid memories of what this castle, or seeing the inside of this castle, used to mean. Imminent danger and probably death. Those were the days, Regina thinks dryly to herself, not really meaning it. Snow and Charming delegate jobs to certain people, sending Granny to make sure there are enough rooms and beds for everyone. There aren't, Regina knows that, but there will be linens and sleeping pallets enough for all of them. Ruby is in charge of searching the kitchen for anything edible, and Little John goes with her, carrying two packs of supplies from their camp.

They'll need to begin trade with Phillip and Aurora's kingdom as soon as possible if they want to keep everyone alive, Regina thinks but says nothing as she remains in her chair and watches the commotion take place in her cavernous front hall. Belle and Neal are given a book, pen and parchment and are charged with accounting for people, writing down where they plan to go and the job they plan on undertaking in the future. They'll need to all work together to rebuild their villages and that will take months, if not years. Regina supposes she could help them with some of that, but can't find it within her to move even a fingertip for these people. Granted, she did take away everything from them, send them to a foreign world and wipe their memories clean, so she probably does owe them something. But she was blinded by vengeance and couldn't help herself back then. Having a son and something good in her life helped her for the better. Until she lost him.

And that's all it takes, one more thought of Henry before she's on her feet and slipping back through the doors downstairs, her boots clicking lightly on the stones as she descends, hoping no one sees her because all she wants is to be alone for a little while to take care of this. She makes it to the crypt and crosses the room, running her hand lightly along her mother's coffin, the stone cool and smooth under her palm. If only things hadn't turned out the way they did. If only her mother hadn't been so driven for royalty and power, she might have been happy with Daniel and still have a loving family. She reminds herself that she doesn't regret any of it. It led her to Henry and she knew happiness again. True happiness with her son, her new family. And brief happiness with his other mother, and the fact that she tried to include Regina as often as possible, although Emma intruded upon both their lives and made Regina's life a living hell there for a while, Emma had attempted to do some good. And now it's all too painful to bear.

Regina takes a deep breath and plunges her hand directly into her chest, grasping hold of the aching organ and pulling it free. A dull void in her chest meets her with comforting emptiness. It doesn't feel good. It just feels like . . . nothing. She regards the heart in her hand. Most of it is darkened, blackened by so many years of hatred and murder so that only a fragment remains glowing and red. The fragment that can still love Henry. That's all she has left, that tiny part that was causing her so much pain.

Momentarily Regina debates crushing it in her palm, diminishing the foul thing into dust so that she can end everything and not have to feel ever again. But that's not what she wants. She still has hope, still has the thought that Henry might find her again, and for that to happen, she needs to finish with this and make her way to her chambers.

The box is nondescript, just another wooden box amongst all the stolen hearts in the crypt, and she is just placing the heart inside when she hears footsteps behind her.

"What are you doing?"

Regina spins around, the heart half-hidden in her grasp. Damned Snow White. Dark eyes narrow at the younger woman. "So now you're following me?"

"We were worried," Snow says, a frown painting her face. "And it looks like we were right to be. What are you putting in there?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Regina says coldly, wishing Snow hadn't shown up. This complicates things. "Why does that make me think that it does?"

Snow steps closer, accusation in her eyes, regarding the glowing object in Regina's hand. "Is that a heart?"

"Go away," Regina says, knowing she sounds like a child, but all she wanted was one small thing. To be left alone for ten minutes to do this. And Snow, pest that she is, can't keep her nose out of it.

"it's yours, isn't it?" Snow knows her now better than Regina previously gave her credit for. A Snow White of the past might have accused Regina of stealing someone else's heart and hiding it in here. But she knows what Regina is feeling now.

"Look," Snow goes on, when Regina doesn't speak, only places the heart in the box and pushes it inside its compartment. It thuds solidly through the wood, still mimicking the movements needed to pump blood through her system. "I know you miss Henry . . ."

Regina cuts her off, turning to fully face the woman. "Not as much as I did when it was still beating in my chest."

Snow shakes her head. "This isn't the answer, no matter how much pain you feel. You can't just live without your heart."

"Watch me."

"Regina, think about it. This is what your mother did. Do you really want to be like that?"

"I don't care. She's dead, Thanks to you, so what does it matter?"

Snow ignores that dig, knowing full well that it was her fault. "You won't feel better, Regina. You won't feel anything."

Regina meets her eyes, hoping to convey this nearly hopeless longing and desperation in her chest to a woman who still has hope of future happiness. "That's the point. I can't keep walking around, knowing that I'll never see Henry. That he doesn't even remember who i am."

Her face contorts in anguish, hating that she's crying in front of her former sworn enemy, but the feeling of loss is still staggering, even without her heart.

"I know exactly how you feel. I just said goodbye to my daughter for the second time. Henry too. But I promise you," Snow says, stepping towards Regina and taking her hands. Regina almost pulls away, but the comforting touch is almost . . . nice. "It will get better _with_ that," she nods to the compartment in the wall. "It will let you feel something else soon enough."

"What's that?" Regina asks, regarding Snow with skeptical eyes.

"The one thing Henry wanted you to find. . . happiness, Regina."

She shakes her head. A noble notion, certainly, but it's simply not going to work. "I can't be happy without Henry."

"Find a way," Snow says, smiling that ever-hopeful, infuriating smile that she and Charming share. At least Emma doesn't look like that, that 'I will always find you' puppy dog look. Emma's, at least, is more of a confused puppy dog look.

Regina nods, knowing that Snow won't leave her alone unless she goes along with her. She'll just have to find time later to sneak away alone again. With or without her heart, she is going to go to sleep.

She moves to the compartment and takes the heart back out, regards it for a moment more before pressing it firmly back into her chest. It felt like she removed a sword from her chest before, and relieving pain followed it. And now she's shoving it back in, a glutton for punishment apparently and feels tenfold all of the crushingly horrible feelings once again.

"Now," Snow says, sadist that she is, takes her arm. The desire to poison the woman again fleets briefly through her mind. "Let's get back upstairs."

Two hours later, the whole lot of them have been fed and issued linens so that they can settle in to the many bedrooms and not as many beds. Several of the townspeople will have to sleep on the floor in the grand dining room. Regina doesn't offer to share her room with anyone and simply slips away again while Snow is busy snuffing out candles and making sure the front door is locked, not that that will stop someone like the Wicked Witch from getting back in.

That damned Snow has had her eyes on Regina all evening, glancing over at her what seems like every five minutes. Making sure, Regina figures, that she's not going to sneak away again and toss her heart out a window. If Regina was able to get away, she certainly wouldn't put it someplace where something could happen to it, where a random passerby could pick it up and crush it, or worse, use it for something more sinister.

Finally, finally, Regina is able to get away when Snow is preoccupied, and she takes advantage of it, getting the hell out of there and heading upstairs to her chambers. It's dusty, like everything else in the castle, but this, more than anything today feels almost like home. Almost. It at least it invokes the familiar kind of nostalgia instead of the painful kind, the kind she feels all the time for her son.

All her things, all her old belongings, dresses, perfumes, brushes, keepsakes, her bed, all of it is here, exactly as she left it all those years ago, frozen here in time until Emma broke the first curse. She ignores the items, heading straight for her trunk next to the vanity. It contains all of her rare ingredients for the potion she currently needs to make. And after a few minutes of rustling around inside, Regina pulls out three different bottles, placing them lightly on the tabletop and closes her eyes, recalling the exact order and amount needed for the potion to work correctly.

But just as she's about to open her eyes again and get started, Regina hears a thump, followed by a light scraping noise near the door. Her eyes fly open and she twists in the chair, getting an eyeful of that smelly thieving Robin Hood, standing inside her room now with the door closed and staring at her suspiciously.

"What in the world do you think you're doing in here?" she demands, not bother to get up or waste any more energy on him for that matter, even as he steps farther into the room. He has the decency at least, to look slightly abashed.

"I'm very sorry, your Majesty," he says it with an almost smirk. "Snow noticed your absence and asked me to look in on you while she tended to other matters. Is everything all right?"

If looks could kill, Regina thinks. "Everything is fine," she says in a low tone, wanting him to leave but not really caring if he does. "Now, please leave me alone."

"What are you doing over there?" He is closer now, close enough to see that she's mixing something up, and it's certainly not a nightcap, that much is plain. She can feel the tension increase in the room when she hesitates to answer, knowing full well that he has reason to be quite suspicious of her. She was the Evil Queen after all.

"Nothing that concerns you."

The sound of a throat clearing and what sounds an awful lot like an arrow being pulled from a quiver gives Regina pause. The fabric of her cloak rustles beneath her as she turns in the seat to look at him again, raising an eyebrow when she sees that he does indeed have an arrow notched to his bow. It is aimed directly at her heart. Well, this is one way to do it, she supposes dryly.

"I won't ask you again," He says, drawing the bow taut, some sort of self-righteous heroic expression that reminds her of Charming taking over his face. "What is that?"

No, this won't do at all, Regina thinks. First of all, she doesn't want him here while she completes this task, but if he must witness it, then so be it. And secondly, she'd rather fall into a deep sleep than actually die at his hand, and something must be done about his unneeded sense of heroism. Regina's hand flashes out in front of her body before he can blink an eye. She freezes him to the spot, contracting her hand muscles from ten feet away and feeling that familiar satisfaction of watching the air drain from his body as she crushes his trachea.

"How dare you threaten me in my own castle." Regina's voice has gone cold. Before it was dull and uncaring, but now she's angry. And an angry and cornered sorceress is not something this naive man should have come after.

He splutters and almost coughs, but his arrow remains trained on her heart.

"Even if you . . .choke the life out of me," he squeaks out, every word labored past the closing of his windpipe. "This arrow will leave my bow, and I never miss. Now . . . what manner of dark potion are you making?"

Regina drops her hand and releases him. Spluttering and coughing fills the chamber, and Regina turns back to her vanity, taking the vials in her hands tries again to remember the first step to mix up the elixir.

"It's a sleeping potion," she says resignedly. If he really wants to know, fine, let him know. But that won't stop her from going through with it. Let him tell the others why she did it, that is, if they ask.

"Like the one you used on Snow White."

Ah, he's knowledgeable about what happened in this kingdom. Good for him. Not as knowledgeable as he thinks, however.

"No. _T__hat_ was from Maleficent. This one, I learned how to make on my own."

"That's why you keep sneaking away," Robin says. "That's why you wanted to be alone."

"Yes, well, it's difficult to put together a potion with Snow White and Robin Hood breathing down one's neck every second of the day."

"So, then, who's it for? Snow White again? The Wicked Witch?"

Ah, naive again. These people are nothing to her anymore. "The witch," she says dully. "I don't care about her."

"Then who do you plan to use it on?"

The vial glows purple as she waves her hand over it, completing the mixture and the spell that accompanies it. One more thing before it's finished. For a sleeping spell to work, the creator must have a certain hair, either the hair of the person sleeping, or the hair of the one who might wake the person someday. The potion differs depending on this.

"Don't worry. No one you'll miss," and then quieter, more to herself than anything. "No one anyone will miss."

A pin used to keep her hair in its tightly wound coif, she pulls from its position. A few stray hairs tumble down around her shoulders, tickling the exposed skin there. It's sharp, sharp enough to administer the potion to her bloodstream, one of the ways to administer this kind of elixir. There are three different ways for different potions, drinking or eating the potion, like Snow White's, injecting the potion directly into the bloodstream like Aurora's, and of course, the powdered sort that travels through the respiratory system. But this type will do just fine.

She dips it in the vial and swirls it around, contemplating the dream world and what it might be like in there. Henry's been in there, Snow and Charming, and of course Aurora. What it will be like, to wander the darkness, hopefully without feeling, she is not sure. If only she could have taken her heart out before. Then she would be certain not to feel.

A voice breaks her from her reverie. "This is about your son, isn't it?"

But when she doesn't answer, Robin goes on, stepping towards her again. "I can't let you do this."

Apparently, he hadn't learned the first time. She waves a hand without looking at him, freezing his feet to the stone floor. "It's a good thing you don't have a say in the matter."

"I know how you feel, Regina," he says, pleading with her, his eyes full of sadness and memories. "When I lost my wife, I didn't think I could go on. But then I found a reason. My son."

"That's where you and I differ," she spits, tears in her eyes. "I've already lost my son. I already lost the only thing I care about."

Regina holds out the sharp pin, staring at the glowing purple point intently. But Robin doesn't give up so easily.

"That doesn't mean you won't find a new reason," he pleads desperately. A sculpted brow raises in question. A new reason? What does he think, that it will be him?

"We all get a second chance, Regina. You just have to open your eyes to see it."

"Too bad mine will already be closed," she says and stands up, making her way to the balcony leading out to her private courtyard. Anyplace to get away from this man is his never-ending pleas for her to continue staying awake. That's not what Regina wants, and she doesn't want to hear any more of it.

"So that's it?" he demands, still tugging at his feet, trying to free them from the stone. "You're just giving up?"

"This isn't an end," Regina says with a small smile, because suicide isn't what she's looking for. She's tried that route before and couldn't go through with it. No, what she wants is a way out for a while. It might be cowardly, sure, but it's what she needs. "It's an eternal middle. This curse can be broken, but by the only true love in my life. And the only reason I would want to wake. My son."

"Regina, this is a mistake," he says, but his voice fades away as she leaves the room and walks out into the open night air. It's a mild night, the stars are so much brighter here, and they're different too. These constellations are like old memories, like faraway relatives she hasn't seen in a long time. Scanning the sky for the big dipper and Orion's belt has become second nature, but she doesn't see them, only the constellations of her childhood. Here in this world, she and Henry can't even share the same stars or moon.

The stone bench near the fountain is cold and hard, but Regina hardly notices as she stares down at the sharp pin. "I'm sorry, Henry. Maybe one day you'll find me and wake me up. But until then . . ."

The pin inches closer and closer to her finger, so close she can almost feel it pinch her skin, when something startles her. A bright cackle from directly behind her, around the other side of the fountain rings out in the semi-darkness. Regina spins around on the stone to stare at the intruder, the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up, and her magic prickling like static electricity inside her. This woman, leaned up against a broomstick, green skin, wide smile and gleaming blue eyes, is abundant with magic, that much Regina is sure of. But so much magic that she could break the blood barrier?

"You weren't even going to say hello first?" the woman asks in a sugar sweet voice, accent from a far-away place, one that reminds her of Rumpelstiltskin's somehow. "Not exactly the welcome I was expecting. What's a witch got to do to get your attention?"

Words won't form on her lips, and even if they did, Regina wouldn't know what to say. Green skin, broomstick, dark, familiar-looking dress. The Wicked Witch of the old stories, but why is she here? Before she can think another thought, the pin is whooshed away from her hand in a tiny cloud of green smoke. It reappears in the witch's hand, and the woman stares down at it.

"What's the matter, Regina?" the witch says gleefully. "Has life got you down?"

Regina stands up, steps around the fountain to see her adversary more clearly. The woman mimics her, also taking a step and squaring off. "None of your business," Regina says coldly. Why can't she be left alone for more than five minutes? Why? The woman who knows her name somehow tilts her head, gazing at Regina curiously.

"You really don't know who I am, do you?"

"I know exactly who you are. The Wicked Witch," Regina's mouth forms heavily over the words, like they taste bad in her mouth.

"Is that all you know about me?"

"I'm not that interested," Regina says, reaching out her hand to magic the pin back within her grasp, but through another cloud of green smoke, it disappears completely from the woman's green hand.

"Allow me to introduce myself," she says with a half-curtsy, and Regina gets a good look at the dress. That's why it seemed so familiar. "You can call me Zelena."

"That's my dress," Regina points out, and Zelena nods, smiling crookedly.

"Yes, it looks better on me, don't you think?"

Regina rolls her eyes, not willing to play games with this stranger, especially when she was so close to getting to sleep. "I think you never should have left Oz."

Zelena shrugs and begins walking in the opposite direction, running her hand along a carved stone statue. "You can have you castle back if you want it so badly. I was just trying it on for size. Besides," she says with a sideways grin towards Regina. "I've already seen everything worth seeing. Your closet, your gardens, your . . . crypt."

Ah, something Regina truly is curious about. "Yes, how did you break the blood barrier?"

"I didn't," Zelena says simply, looking around again at the castle grounds and then back at Regina.

"The door was open. No one's that powerful."

Green hands go to Zelena's hips, and she frowns at Regina. "Cora really never told you?"

"Told me what?"

"The truth about us, Regina." Everything about the woman seems so matter-of-fact and well planned out, and Regina hates nothing more than to be kept in the dark, to be one step behind an opponent. And talk about Cora riles her up in a way she doesn't quite know how to describe.

"What are you talking about? And how do you know my mother?"

"The same way you do," Zelena says. "I'm your sister."


	7. Chapter 7

**Land Without Magic - April 1st, 2013**

I don't know how the hell you know my kid's name. Either you're a mind reader or you really have been watching us all this time. Or, you're telling the truth about where you're from and I really have lost my memories. But I dismiss that last one as impossible and go on berating myself as I lead you both through alleyways and darkening streets back towards the apartment.

It's a terrible idea. I know, I know, I know. But what else can I do? You two are persistent, that much is for sure. And leaving you, trying to run away from you isn't going to work. What I can do is take you back, have you stay downstairs in the lobby; there's a little office in there with a cot and a couch. And that way I can keep my eye on you, make sure you're not trying to kill us, and maybe you'll get tired of trying to convince me of impossible things and just leave.

I've got a sinking feeling, however, that you and the one-handed guy aren't going anywhere for a while. Another feeling I'm having is that I probably should have just killed you both when I had the chance. Just a couple of bullets is all it would have taken. Just two squeezes of the trigger, maybe four because of the double tap rule. But I keep shaking my head, getting rid of those thoughts as soon as they enter my head. You're both alive. And human. I think.

And I can't just go around killing humans if I want this world to be a better place for my son to grow up in. And speaking of my son, I have every intention of keeping you and Captain Jack away from him for now. The last thing I need is a blood bath in my courtyard, our safe haven, all because two lunatics managed to trick me and convince me that they're trustworthy and A-Okay to bring back to my apartment.

As we approach the front gate, I smile to myself. It really is well-protected. It already had this courtyard built, with ten foot high fences and a gate in the front. Granted, we boarded up the bars so that no one can see inside, but any passerby probably wouldn't think twice about people actually being inside.

I've already got my plan for keeping my kid away from the both of you settled in my head, so I pull out my walkie talkie and press the button.

"Boston to Bronx," I say into it. He comes back right away. "Read you loud and clear Boston."

"Listen Bronx, we have a situation down here. I've got my key for the chains, but I'm gonna need you to go upstairs and wait for me there."

There's a pause, and I know exactly what he's doing. Looking around for a weapon first and then high tailing it to the second or third floor where he can see out the window at what I'm talking about. He comes back on in about two minutes, slightly out of breath. We should probably work more on his cardio.

"Everything okay?" His voice seems small, smaller than usual, and I know that he's scared, seeing me with these two people so I nod my head and pull my key out, smiling up at the window I'm guessing he's at.

"It's good. We have company, and you can meet them in the morning."

"Roger," he says, but he doesn't sound convincing. I don't blame him. Last time we had company, it didn't end well.

I look back at the two of you while I unlock the gate and pull it open, ushering you both inside. And as you pass by, you've still got that ghost-seeing expression on your face and I can't help but wonder why you've gotten it both times I've been on the radio. Showing you both around doesn't take long, seeing as how there isn't much to show, and I get you both situated in the small office, handing you spare blankets from the cabinet and telling you where to use the bathroom and how to get water if you need a drink.

I'm in a hurry to get away from both of you, to get up to my son and to hug him, to feel him and know that he's real. Because you two can't be real, you two are impossible and you've told me impossible things and my head still hurts because of it. So I tell you both goodnight, that we'll talk in the morning and then I trudge up the stairs and into our apartment, closing the deadbolts and making sure everything is secure before turning around.

And there's the kid, chewing on his lip, worried sick I'm sure about who these people are and why he wasn't allowed to meet them. All I tell him is that I met you both on my run and that you helped me save the guy from a zombie bite. I don't go into details of course, but he accepts it and asks how long you'll be staying. The look on his face tells me that he's excited to see some real people for a change. It's got to be hard being a young teenager and have absolutely zero social interactions besides with your mother.

I mean, I'm cool. I'm a cool mom. But that doesn't mean much to a teenager.

I tell him for a day, maybe two, depending on how long it takes to convince you both to leave, and he nods his head a little sadly. I'm sure he wants to get to know these new people, the sting of the last bunch of people we knew has hopefully already left him.

That night, I'm afraid to sleep. I'm afraid of a lot of things right now. Number one is the weird couple of people downstairs. I'm afraid that Jolly Roger is nuts, well, strike that, I know that he's nuts. And I'm afraid that you're nuts too. But I'm also afraid that you're not. I'm afraid that what you've told me is true. But that's only the second thing, and it's terrifying me. And the third thing is that I'm afraid to dream another crazy dream.

And then I hear a noise. My ears are finely tuned for noises. Out of place noises that catch my attention and send my heart racing. It's these kinds of noises that end up being worst case scenario noises, the kind where it's what you thought it probably was but hoped that it wasn't. The kind that end up turning into a life and death situation. So I shoot out of bed, nine millimeter gripped tightly in my hand. My bare feet silent assassins on the wooden floor, leading me noiselessly to my open bedroom door. It's dark in the living room, but I haven't turned on any lights and my eyes are still attuned to their night vision.

But I can't see anything out of the ordinary. Door is still closed, but I'm too far away to see if the bolts are locked the way I left them earlier. My first instinct is to turn the corner to my left and check on the kid, to see if it's him making the floorboards creak out here in the living room. And just as I'm turning to do that, something catches my eye.

A slight movement over by the couch. Just a hint of movement, just enough for my brain to say, 'wait a second'. I know that Henry would never sit on the couch in the middle of the night. He doesn't sleep walk. The kid is just the opposite actually, probably the soundest and stillest sleeper I've ever met. Must get it from his bastard father, because I'm awake at the smallest mousiest little noise. Although that could be attributed to the end of the world and constant threat of being killed and eaten.

But that slight movement at the couch is all it takes for me to spring into action. Five, six steps and I'm across the room, right behind the couch with my gun to their head. How the hell this person or walker or whoever got in here is beyond me, but they're about to wish they hadn't set foot in here. They're about to wish the thought hadn't even crossed their mind.

What doesn't cross my mind is the fact that it could be you sitting here on my couch. That doesn't cross my mind at all until I have my gun to the back of your head and my eyes finally adjust enough for me to make out the hair. And as the gun's muzzle makes initial contact with your skull, you jump slightly in surprise because there's no way you could've heard me coming. That's when it does cross my mind that it could be you. But what the hell? How the hell did you get in here?

You freeze, your hands still over what they're holding and I can see now what it is you're doing on the couch. You've got a photo album in your lap, your hands splayed across the top of it, and I imagine that a second before, you were running your hands gently over the top of it. I'll probably have a permanent crease between my eyebrows because I've been frowning so much lately.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I growl, and my voice is low, raspy from disuse, but every bit as intense and menacing as I intended.

Your shoulders scrunch up, cringing at my intrusion. Well, my intrusion upon your intrusion. But still you don't say anything, and although I'm feeling a little less threatened because I know it's you and not some random person in my apartment, you're still in here and I don't know how. My eyes flick over to the door, and sure enough, it's still locked, still bolted completely and shut securely. Maybe you can climb walls. Granted, there are only two fire escapes in the building; one is outside my room and the other is two floors down. And if I'm being honest here, there's no other way for you to get in.

"How did you get in here?" And finally you respond, relaxing your shoulders just a bit and turning to look at me. I pull the gun back enough to see your face, and as I step around the couch to stand in front of you, I can feel your eyes on me. I can't see them really, it's too dark and tonight there's no moon, but I can definitely feel them.

"I'm sorry," you say and your voice is so low and so quiet I can barely hear it. But you still don't move, still don't try to defend yourself against the gun pointed at you, so I relax my grip just a little. "I couldn't sleep. I didn't think you'd wake up."

I almost laugh. Almost. It's almost funny that you're in here, that you're sitting on my couch with your hands on my family's pictures, that you think I wouldn't wake up when you break into my house, that you're just sitting here, that this is so fucked up.

"How the **hell** did you get in here?" My voice gets growly again because you didn't answer my question.

"I . . . I'm sorry. I'll go." The floorboards creak again as you make to stand, and I take a step back; the gun comes back up, raises up to level with you.

"No!" I say, still not loudly enough to wake the kid, but loudly enough to get your attention. You freeze, and at this angle, I can just make out the contours of your face, the shine in your eyes. They're both wet. You've been crying. "Tell me how you got in. If you can get in, the walkers can get in."

You gesture around yourself sort of helplessly and then shrug. "I . . . used magic. I shouldn't have, I know."

"Magic," I say, my tone uneven. I know I saw this 'magic' earlier, even participated in it I think, but this is . . . I don't know what this is. I don't know what to think, so I say what I usually say in situations like this, although I've never had a situation like this before. "What the hell. What the hell!"

I lose sight of your eyes for a moment as you look down at your feet, like you also don't know what to think, or maybe you don't know what to say. How do you explain magic to someone like me? I guess I would be intimidated too, if it was me. But after a moment, you look up again, your eyes meet mine and your arms fold tightly over your chest, like you want to protect yourself. I lower my gun, move slowly around the couch in front of you.

"You can't deny that I have some sort of power, right?" You wait until I respond, until I show you that I'm with you, that I understand. But I'm not, so I can't really respond. You go on anyway. "May I show you again? So that you'll believe me?"

Sure, more magic tricks. Just what I needed for a little late night entertainment. After the day I've had, sure, why the hell not.

"I thought you said it was weak here?"

"It is. But I still have it, and I have it especially when in connection to you for some reason . . . " you trail off at that, and it looks like you don't get that part either. All right, let's just find out about this once and for all. I sit down next to you on the couch.

"Okay, show me again then." I inch closer to you, reaching to my side and holstering my weapon, meaning I just stick it into the waistband of my shorts. You reach out for me, slowly bring your hand to my skin.

You touch your hand to my forearm. And suddenly I feel that buzz, those bees and hornets zipping along through my blood and all along my nerves. It's a heady feeling, one that feels intoxicating.

Your opposite hand comes up between us and I'm sure my eyes go about as wide as they've ever been when I see it. The tips of your fingers are glowing blue and purple, like they were yesterday, sparking with electricity, just looking for something to jump to. And with a flick of your wrist, you've conjured a glowing orange fireball, swirling and gasping up oxygen, crackling merrily in the darkness. As it lights up your face, I look from the orange brightness to your face, and I can see the reflection of it in your eyes. But that's not all I see there; there's sadness, there's regret, and there's that look that I used to see on the streets with the drug users when they got their next hit.

It looks like you've scored a high, like you haven't done this in too long and it's the best damn feeling in the world. I understand that feeling right now. I can feel the power buzzing through me and it's electrifying. It's addicting. But before I can absorb any more of it into my system, you've tossed the fireball over to the wall and into the fireplace. For a moment there, I think you've just sent the whole building up in flames, but no, I realize you've just lit a fire with your magic fireball. You really have a magic fireball. Now I've felt it.

"This is crazy," I murmur as my eyes stay fixed on the flame. You're watching me and when I realize this, I look at you, eyes still glowing like whiskey and dark chocolate and that fire.

"You've said that already, dear," your voice is teasing, still low and raspy though as you let go of my forearm. The buzzing stops, but the tension between us is still there. I need to diffuse it.

"Okay, then explain." It's demanding I know, and you're being quite patient, sitting back down on my couch and looking so damn familiar to me that I don't even know what to do with myself. Maybe I'm going crazy too. And then you start talking.

You tell me that you're going to try and keep it brief and as simple as possible to eliminate the need for questions, but I have so many questions.

But then your voice takes off, meandering up and down wild adventures and into fairytales and through other worlds and I'm mesmerized by you. Then my mind goes numb at all of the characters you mention. You speak of Snow White and Prince Charming, who are my parents apparently, and an Evil Queen. You're the evil queen, and you wanted your revenge on Snow White for ruining your life and so cursing them all to a quiet little town in Maine where they wouldn't get their happy endings was your greatest idea.

And, another brilliant idea, my parents sent me first through a portal so that I would be safe from you, and that's how I came to be an orphan. And then apparently I had Henry and gave him up and then he found me and brought me back to break the curse. And then so much more happened, but for right now the foremost important thing I know is that another curse has been enacted, and it wasn't you this time. This time, you sent me and Henry away because we weren't really of that world you were about to be sent back into.

Oh, and the second most important thing I know is that a witch, Zelena, wants her revenge on you and my mother, Snow White, for something you two did on accident, you don't go into details, but it has to do with the first curse. And she's cast a curse on Snow White and Prince Charming, putting them in a deep sleep. Apparently I'm the only who can break this curse. Perfect.

And although I ask for more details, for an actual explanation of what this other land is all about, you tell me that it's not possible to describe it all now, that everything is so interconnected and convoluted that it would take days to explain it all. It just sounds ridiculous. It sounds unbelievable, and the fact that you don't want to go into more detail gives me pause. There's just no way.

I blink, running my hands through my hair and massaging my temples with my fingertips, looking down at the floor. After a moment, I look up into your eyes, incline my head to downstairs.

"So, he's Captain Hook and you're the Evil Queen?"

A cringe ripples through your features and I feel like that's something I shouldn't have said. "That's what they called me, yes."

"You don't seem so bad," I say, because it's true. You seem crazy, sure, but not evil. If all this is for real, then I really am going to need an explanation as to how you were so mad at this Snow White that you wanted to curse her and everyone she loved into oblivion.

"The original curse happened because of me. I ruined people's lives. Although, some of them deserved it."

I'm quiet, waiting for something to pop into my brain to say. You go on when I don't speak. "And as for this most recent curse . . . I'm the reason you and Henry have new memories. I sent you away."

"What do you mean by that, you sent me away?"

"I mean that there was another curse. Someone else's curse to send us all back to the Enchanted Forest, but like I said, you and Henry are not of that world, so to save you heartbreak of losing your family again, and to make things easier, I gave you a happy ending of sorts, or a fresh start."

"But why would you do that?"

Your face looks heartbreaking. "Because . . . It was because of Henry. He was my son, too. I raised him from when he was a baby, while you were . . . incarcerated."

You know I was in prison. Jesus. My head is swirling. These things fit together, but how can they? How can this make sense? How can he have been yours too?

"How do you know these little details! Christ. It sounds like a crazy story, one I could never believe and then you throw in these facts that are completely accurate."

I'm upset and scared and it's starting to show. "How do you know all of this?" I stand up, advancing on you slowly, almost threateningly. It's too much for me to comprehend and I feel threatened. Your son? He's your son too? And now a small voice in the back of my head is telling me that you want to take him from me. And that's something that will never happen. Not while I'm alive.

But you look unfazed that I'm threatening you, and you hold your hands up in front of you. A small wave hits me, like a rush of air, like the promise of something that could be more powerful.

"Because it's true. I know all of this because it's true," And then you hesitate, searching for something in my eyes, searching for the tiniest bit of recognition. "You haven't had any sort of flashbacks? No strange dreams or sudden flashes of strange environments?"

God you're good. You could probably make money at the psychic business, the way that you read people. Either that, or you're really telling the truth here. My silence says it all for me, and you nod knowingly.

"What have you dreamed about?"

Hesitation seems to be my undoing tonight, and I'm still pacing in front of the couch, running a hand through my hair which needs a wash and brushing badly. Finally, I look up at you and you're just sitting there, grimy from your journey but still pristine and straight-backed, hands folded in your lap, waiting for my response.

"The town you were talking about. What did you say the name of it was again?"

"Storybrooke."

And just like that, my vivid dream about this clock tower and town by the water and a city limits sign that says none other than 'Entering Storybrooke' comes back to me in sharp relief. You can see the recognition all over my face, and a hint of a smile tugs at your lips, at that strange scar on your right side.

"And the clock tower is broken, right?" I ask slowly.

A sharp intake of breath from you, and another tugging smile. "It was," you say quietly, your voice growing raspy in this late hour. "Until you came and broke the curse."

I shake my head. This is too much. It's just a coincidence that I've been having these dreams and that these people have shown up. It's not unlucky Rule #13 I tell myself, it's just a bad coincidence. It doesn't mean anything, and I can't handle anything else, any more crazy information.

"Okay," I say, holding my own hands out. "Fine, whatever. But go back downstairs and sleep and I'll come get you in the morning and go to whatever it is you want to show me."

This has been more than enough for one night. If I have any more information crammed into my brain, I think I'll explode. I walk to the door, unlatch it and pull it open, watching you as you stride slowly past me. "I can't trust you if you keep breaking in here. I'm already scared enough."

Your lips contract in a tight, understanding smile. "You're right. I'm sorry. Tomorrow then. We'll talk about all this in the morning?"

"Sure," I nod, although all I want is for you to go and for me to sit in silence and think about this mess of a dilemma you've just presented me with. And then I don't want to think about it anymore. I want to sleep, and I want to make sure Henry is okay and still safe in his bed, still blissfully unaware of the new life that's just been hung over our heads like a fucking Christmas ornament. I also want to have a fucking drink of whiskey, but I don't have any of that. None at all. I'd probably give Captain Sparrow's hook for a swig of rum. Or twenty. I'll be sure to ask him if he brought any along from the Jolly fucking Roger.

I'm laughing deliriously to myself as I check on the kid and he's fine, and if I'm honest with myself, he'll probably eat this up. He'll absolutely love the thought of a new adventure and something other than the world going to hell, hand in hand with brain-eating zombies.

And later, after I've tossed and turned for another hour or two, I fall into a fitful sleep, unable in sleep to resist the dreams.

This time the dream progresses farther into the town, and now the faceless people show up more often, sprinting around corners to avoid me, and sometimes a hazy purple smoke follows in their wake. The clock tower is still broken and when I get to the town hall, I see the door again. And I'm so close to it, so very close. But it's locked. I haven't tried the handle yet because I know that I shouldn't, but it's definitely locked. I can just feel it.


	8. Chapter 8

**_The Enchanted Forest_**

Regina stares at the woman claiming to be her sister, looking her up and down, searching her face for similarities. How can it be possible? A sister?

"Actually," Zelena says with a shrug. "Half sister, but details, details."

"That's . . ." Regina shakes her head. "That's not possible."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You're," the brunette hesitates, looking the other woman up and down. "You're green."

"And you're rude," Zelena scowls, flipping her auburn hair as she turns and stalks a few steps away. "Cora had me first, before she wormed her way up into the dregs of royalty." She turns back to Regina with a sly smile. "You know I'm telling the truth. How else could I have entered your castle and crypt?"

"But . . ." Regina frowns, how can it be? Zelena reads the confusion on her face and answers before Regina can go on.

"Our mother gave me up and sent me away. That's why we never knew each other," Zelena says bitingly, stepping closer again and giving Regina the once over. "But you . . . you she kept. You she gave everything you wanted."

"Everything _she_ wanted," Regina scoffs, she crosses her arms, thoughts flying back to her childhood and teenage years, remembering all too well what it was like to grow up with a mother like Cora, a woman who wanted nothing but power and prestige, a woman who would sacrifice even true love for that power. "If what you're saying is true, then you were lucky to escape her."

"Enough with the martyr complex, Regina. Try growing up without a mother at all."

Regina shakes her head. This woman has no idea. No idea at all how awful it was, the scars she still has, mental and physical. Some things were good, and there was opportunity for redemption, but more than likely, Cora would have never changed.

"Not only that," Zelena goes on while Regina is lost in thought. "But try growing up knowing that no one thought you were good enough. Not even your mother. Not even the only man who crossed both of our paths."

At this, Regina pauses. A man who crossed both their paths? But they were from different worlds. A man connecting Cora to the both of them. "And who is that?"

Zelena doesn't hesitate and the answer hits Regina like a stack of bricks. "Rumpelstiltskin, of course."

"You knew Rumpelstiltskin?"

"I certainly did. In fact," Zelena says slowly, drawing out the words for a more dramatic effect. "He is my father. How else do you think I became this powerful?"

"Your father?" Regina's mouth hangs open. But why the green skin? And how did she end up in Oz? And why did Cora never say anything?

"I didn't find out until I was older, in fact, Rumpelstiltskin didn't even know at the time."

"I don't think I understand. Why would you be angry with me? It's your parents who did this to you. Is it jealousy?"

"No, no Regina. Something far worse. Far worse than simple envy. Despite being abandoned by the both of them, I made something of myself, dear. And I'll have my revenge on them soon, don't you worry."

"It's too bad they're not around to see how well you turned out," Regina says scathingly and almost smiles at the confused expression on her half-sister's face. "They're both dead."

Zelena's body goes rigid and her eyes dart around for a moment, but she recovers quickly. "That's all right. You're the only one I need alive."

"Really? Why is that?"

"Because it's your fault I lost my true love. You and your selfish curse. You and Rumplestiltskin and that dreadful curse. You'll pay for that. And I'm going to take everything away from you if you refuse to do what I say."

"Too late. I've already lost everything that matters."

"Oh no, Regina. You haven't lost anything yet."

"So you _are_ going to kill me," Regina says and feels a strange sense of relief that courses through her veins. Another threat. Well, maybe this one will actually go through with it. Because no one ever does.

"No. That's too easy," Zelena says, her long fingers supporting her tilted head thoughtfully. "First, I want you to see why I'm seeking vengeance. And after you do what I ask, you can get back to your miserable life here in your lonely castle. And after that you'll have to live with the knowledge that you personally ruined my life."

"This is ridiculous," Regina growls, but the mysterious woman ignores her, turning to the fountain before them and pointing her finger at it, sending a zap of green magic to swirl the water inside until it becomes murky and milky-white.

"Take a look. We'll watch it from the beginning. My sordid past and what part you played in it."

And sure enough, the opaque liquid transforms into a spinning wheel of twisted colors, turning and turning until finally they form an image. Regina looks closer. It's like a screen, a television screen of sorts, displaying a moving picture of Zelena's past. Except it is Regina's past too.

It's Cora, a much younger Cora, visiting a familiar castle. She's delivering flour to a king, and soon two more familiar faces come into view. Princess Eva, Snow White's mother, and Prince Henry, her own father.

"This is where it starts," Zelena says softly, watching alongside Regina. "The day before Eva's birthday party, where Prince Henry is searching for a prospective bride, also where Cora openly defied the king and the princess. And the king humiliated her, forcing her to see what she really was: a common peasant."

The image changes, and Cora is in different clothing, formal evening wear and standing in the doorway to a lavish party. She's crashing the birthday party, face set in an expression of determination to get back at Eva for embarrassing her. But her plan is foiled when King Xavier and Princess Eva recognize her and call her out in front of the entire party.

But Cora behaves as Regina expects, holding her head high and claiming for some reason that she is not just a simple miller's daughter, that she is capable of spinning straw into gold. A lie, definitely, one to save face, and it costs her dearly. As punishment, Regina watches with wide eyes, King Xavier tells Cora that if she can indeed spin straw into gold, she can have Prince Henry's hand in marriage, and if not, she will be killed for her open defiance.

The next scene shows Cora stuck in a room, surrounded by straw with a spinning wheel she has no idea how to use, and that's when she calls upon Rumpelstiltskin to help her. Regina had always wondered exactly how this meeting had gone, and now she knows, she can see firsthand the effect Rumple has on Cora, initial fear and distrust: the glittery, scaly appearance doesn't help. But when Rumple begins to spin the gold, Cora's eyes light up with greed, with the notion of power, with the beginnings of a plan for revenge.

"Lovely couple, don't you think?" Zelena says quietly beside her, but her expression says the opposite: anguish, regret, longing for her real family. If only she knew the truth of it, Regina thinks.

"I wasn't aware they were lovers."

"Oh yes," Zelena says, nodding. "Cora won Prince Henry's hand the next morning when she showed up with spun gold, but the wedding took a year to plan, and Cora spent most of it with Rumpelstiltskin, learning magic and traveling."

"Traveling to where?"

"Watch," Zelena directs Regina's attention back to the next scene in the water, which must be at least a couple months later, where the Dark One and Cora stand in Rumple's castle. He is summoning someone into the room, and a pair of guards escort a familiar-looking man wearing a purple top hat and a velvet blazer.

_"Geoffrey," Rumple says, holding his arms wide and submitting his impish smile to the newcomer. "Welcome. I'd like you to meet my newest student. This is Cora." _

_"Cora," Geoffrey says with a bow as he takes her hand and kisses it. "What a pleasure."_

_Cora simply nods and looks to Rumple, desire and longing written all over her face. Regina had no idea they were so close. _

_"Let's get to it then, shall we?" _

_"Of course," Geoffrey says, whipping off his hat with a flourish. "Where would you like to go?" _

All at once Regina realizes why the man looks so familiar. He is the spitting image of Jefferson, the Mad Hatter. This man must be his father, another portal-jumper from Wonderland. The hat is one and the same, and Regina figures it must be a family-business.

_"Today, I'd like to take Cora to Oz."_

_"Oz," Geoffrey grins, wiggling his eyebrows. "A fine world, indeed. You know, I heard they recently found a new leader, a man on a balloon who is planning on uniting all four territories."_

_"Interesting," Rumple says with a raised eyebrow, taking Cora's hand and stepping towards the man. With a whoosh, the hatter tosses the hat up in the air, giving it a great spin with his hands and it falls to the floor, immediately opening up a portal. _

_"To Oz!" The Hatter yells over the whirling wind and with a leap, the three of them jump inside._

Regina turns slightly to look at her half-sister. "So that's where you come in?"

"Not quite yet. But soon."

The water swirls again and now Regina can see Oz. It doesn't look quite like the imaginative minds of movie-makers in Hollywood thought, but as the scene grows closer and closer, a bird's eye view, drifting slowly to the earth, Regina can spot a yellow brick road under construction, with paths reaching out in all four cardinal directions. And at the center is a brilliantly green-lit metropolitan center. The emerald city.

That city is where the scene ends up, inside the main building of the castle, but instead of Rumple, Cora and the Hatter traveling together, now it is only Cora and the Hatter. Where Rumple has gone off to, Regina hasn't a clue. She's about to turn and ask Zelena when she sees Cora's face close up.

_"Now, Geoffrey, where is this nice family you told me so much about?" _

_"Right this way, ma'am," Geoffrey says, arm stretched to the side, and Cora follows his direction down a deserted hallway. He turns to Cora as they walk. "Are you sure you want to do this?"_

_Cora shoots him a murderous glare, one Regina is all too familiar with. "Of course I do. I wouldn't have gone through all this trouble, avoiding Rumple and lying to every person back in the Enchanted Forest if this wasn't absolutely necessary."_

_"Right, of course ma'am," the man hesitates, his eyes shifting from side to side nervously. "But if it's not too bold, may I ask why you think this is best?" _

_"It is too bold, you intrusive imbecile," Cora says coldly, but she goes on, eyes hardening as she speaks. It gives Regina chills. "But if you must know, I simply can't afford to have Henry know I've had a child. And this child in particular would draw quite a few stares and attention, don't you think?" _

_The Hatter hesitates, unsure what to say, because one wrong answer, he knows, could cost him dearly. _

As Cora walks, Regina can see her better, and notices now that she's been carrying something the whole time. Cora looks down at the bundle, grimacing slightly at it and tsks under her breath. Regina realizes this must be nine months later, right after Cora gave birth to Zelena. And it seems as though she's giving the baby up, hiding her mistake with Rumple in a completely different realm, hiding a child away from two different men.

In many ways, it is a cowardly and selfish thing to do, especially considering how people in Regina's life handled situations like this. The Charmings giving up their daughter to an unknown world, for her best chance. And Emma, doing the same with Henry. But if Emma hadn't given Henry up for his best chance, Regina would never have had him in her life, and the curse would never have been broken. But Emma didn't have much of a choice; she was in a bad place in her life, certainly not in a position to be raising a child.

However, Regina ponders, Cora had her own interests at heart, knowing that if she had this baby and kept it in the Enchanted Forest, Cora would never become royalty and the baby certainly would never see the throne. And if that had happened, Regina would never have been born.

"So she gave you up to become royalty."

"Yes, because my skin color would never be accepted and because I was the product of an illicit, adulterous affair. Granted, Cora and Henry weren't married, yet."

"You were green, even then?" Regina asks, looking back into the water, squinting at the bundle to see her half-sister. She turns back to meet Zelena's glare.

"Yes. I was born green and I've been green ever since. It's one of the reasons I'm considered wicked," Zelena says sardonically, and her eyes flash with anger. "Not to mention my notable powers, considering I'm the product of a powerful sorceress and the Dark One."

"Indeed," Regina says thoughtfully and continues to watch the scene play out.

_Cora and the Hatter make their way to a small, quiet room, just short of what looks like the main hall. A family waits there, a mother with a baby cradled in her arms and a father who looks rather apprehensive. _

_"Geoffrey," the man says, releasing his wife's shoulder and stepping towards the hatter to clasp hands in welcome. "You made it."_

_"Of course, of course. Now, for the exchange." _

_Cora hands off the baby to the father, and when he sees the child, his gasp of surprise is audible throughout the room. _

_"Is there a problem?" Cora seethes, straightening her dress and standing up tall. _

_"No. No, of course not," the man stutters. "It's just . . ."_

_"Now, Your Eminence, remember. I told you the child was different. And that she would make a perfect companion to your own daughter as they grow up." _

_"Yes, of course," the man nods vigorously, and he chances a nervous look at Cora. He must have been previously warned about her angry streak. The baby in his wife's arms makes gurgling noises as she shuffles closer to him, wanting a closer look at the newest addition to their family. She smiles widely at the happy, green-skinned baby in her husband's arms. _

_"She's beautiful," the woman says and looks up at Cora, eyes wide with gratitude. Her eyes also look a little glazed, like she might be drunk or under the influence of drugs. "Thank you so much for this gift. Our own baby's legs were badly deformed during the birth, and she'll need help her entire life." _

_"You're welcome," Cora says, grinding out a smile for the woman. "But it's you I should be thanking for so readily agreeing to keep her." _

_The woman stays quiet, and if she and her husband have any more thoughts on Cora and the reasons for her giving up her strange newborn, they do not voice them. _

The water swirls again, Zelena meets her half sister's eyes and they are blazing with hatred.

"Our mother abandoned me to this family in a foreign world, like I was . . .trash or some sort of _monster_," she spits the word. "And she sneaked back, Rumpelstiltskin was none the wiser that she was even with child, and she promptly dumped him for your father."

"After taking her heart out first," Regina says with a glance at the ground. How awful to find out that one's mother never loved her husband, that she married only for power and to now learn that Cora had shunned her love for that same power. "Yes, I've heard that part. The family she left you with, were they that bad?"

Zelena shakes her head. "For the most part, no. But I was never loved, not even by my adoptive mother. She spent all her time drunk and cheating on her husband. Maybe by Nessa, my sister, but she rarely voiced it. And the Eminent Thropp, my adoptive father, all but resented me."

"Why?"

"Another mouth to feed. A child who drew unwanted attention on his formerly pristine family life, and it didn't help that he was religious, a preacher of sorts, and that I represented to him things that were wicked and sinful in the world. When I turned five and my adoptive mother died, he grew bitter and blamed her death on me."

"It wasn't your fault though, was it?"

"Of course not. He just needed someone to blame. And I was an easy target for that. I was always an easy target."

Regina stays quiet. What do you say to a woman who's been wronged her entire life, who feels that she has no other option but to lash out at everyone who crosses her path? Personally, Regina knows what it's like to want to hurt everything that comes near you.

"So Rumple never knew?"

"No one did, not even me until my adoptive father was dying, and on his deathbed he told me I was adopted, which wasn't really a surprise to me, considering how they treated me. That to meet my real parents, I would need to visit the wizard."

"And did you finally meet Rumplestiltskin?"

"Through the wizard, I did," Zelena says and points back down at the fountain.

The water swirls through scenes of Zelena's life, of taking care of Nessa, a wheelchair bound, dark-haired girl. From the brief memories, Regina can plainly see that the girl was demanding and sometimes cruel, and she can feel nothing but pity for her half-sister. She was still persecuted and discriminated against because of her skin color in Oz, even though that was Cora's reason for giving her up in the Enchanted Forest. But on the bright side, however, and what Zelena doesn't realize, is that she didn't have to grow up under Cora's thumb and the influence of dark and oppressive magic.

Later, the swirling water shows both Zelena and Nessa going off to school, to University where magic doesn't seem to be a bad thing, where they have special classes for those gifted few with magical potential, and talking Animals are professors and the two sisters are roommates together.

Regina watches as Zelena meets a blonde girl, a perky, outspokenly popular girl who seems the exact opposite of Zelena. Despite their differences, they somehow gravitate towards each other, both of them possessing considerable magical powers and rising through the ranks of Oz's influential people.

And there seems to be a growing attraction between the two girls; one day they're fighting about clothes and popularity and the next day the argument has morphed into an agreement on Animal rights and freedom of expression and religion before Regina can bat an eye, the swirling water offers a brief glimpse into the girls' personal relationship.

They embrace in deserted hallways, stealing kisses and defying expectations about what good, popular girls and unpopular girls should be doing with their lives.

"Who is this?" Regina asks, indicating the blonde woman whom Zelena is now watching so ardently. Her half-sister hastily wipes tears from her eyes.

"Glinda," Zelena says, her voice rough and gravelly. "Everything was going so well, until I heard news that my adopted father was gravely ill, and Nessa and I traveled back home to see him once more. It's like I said before, he told me on his deathbed that I was adopted. And so I had to see the Wizard to meet my real family, to find out why they would abandon me."

"And what did you find out?"

"The Wizard showed me how to connect a portal between the two worlds using my looking glass, and Rumpelstiltskin appeared in it, astounded that I was who I said. I found out that he didn't know about me, that our mother hid that from him as well, and although he was preoccupied looking for his son, he was happy to have a daughter. For a while, he doted on me, giving me gifts and teaching me more powerful magic than I already knew. He gave me a pair of marvelous silver slippers. They had magical properties; of what caliber, he didn't say, but then I gave them to my sister and they helped with her disability, allowing her to finally walk."

"Whatever happened to Geoffrey? Why didn't he tell Rumple what happened? Why didn't he bring Rumple back to you?"

"Cora happened to Geoffrey. That's why Rumpelstiltskin never came back all those years, but really, what reason did he have? Portals had been mostly closed to travel after Cora murdered the Mad Hatter in Wonderland so that he wouldn't spill her secret, leaving the hat with his son so that the line of portal travelers wouldn't be totally lost. Sometimes his son, Jefferson, would travel with Rumplestiltskin through the realms, but rarely to Oz because it reminded him of Cora."

Regina shakes her head; she should be surprised at the sound of her mother's cold blooded murder to cover up her secret, but she is not. Not after hearing about her mother's other murders and heart-taking in Wonderland. Not after experiencing her mother firsthand and then going on to repeat the same mistakes herself years later.

But those thoughts flee quickly from her mind; thoughts instead of Zelena with the beautiful blonde woman are hovering annoyingly at the front.

"And everything was good, or getting better at least. Granted, he was never fully here, was never fully committed to having me as a daughter. I think he was frustrated not being able to find his son, and he had some sort of war to wage on people from another land. But everything else was good. Glinda and I were growing close to the Wizard, and we wanted to work with him to unite the four territories, to improve the rights of the Animals..."

"Until . . ." Regina knows something must have happened, something to set things in motion for Zelena. The other shoe must drop.

"Until he realized that I was more powerful than he was prepared for, that I had more potential than even you, his most promising student."

"You," Regina scoffs. "More powerful than me?"

Zelena simply smiles. "That's what Rumpelstiltskin thought. Silly man. He wanted the slippers back, said they were of no use to me anymore, but secretly I think they contained more power than he intended for me to possess. When I told him that I had given them to Nessa, he was angry with me, and I only understood why that was later on. He showed me, like I'm showing you now, scenes of you learning magic, developing your skills, and descending down that same path your mother, our mother, went down."

A shadow falls over Regina's face. "Don't talk to me about descending into darkness."

"Oh pish tosh," Zelena waves her hand dismissively. "Rumpelstiltskin showed me all of it, what Snow did to you, Cora killing your love, and how that helped you find enough motivation to enact his curse. And I continued watching you before it happened, Glinda and I both. We knew it wouldn't be good. Rumpelstiltskin wouldn't say specifically what it was about, only that his son might be in this new world that everyone would be going to. But no one knew the consequences, but whatever they were, they couldn't be anything good. Nothing that required such dark magic could be."

"So the fact that Rumpelstiltskin chose me to enact this curse isn't causing any of this animosity between us?"

Zelena scoffs. "It doesn't help. But when he realized that I had this potential and that I had this drive, he didn't know what to do with it. I suppose he thought I would take his curse and do something worse with it, like somehow find his dagger and obtain his Dark One powers. He decided to turn against me, to shut me down before I could become powerful enough to travel the realms and challenge him."

"So let me guess, he turned the people against you?"

"He did. He turned the Wizard against me, and the rest of the people followed. The Animal rights issue was a hot topic at that time, and he and the Wizard cast a spell throughout Oz, halting all talking from the Animals and putting a damper on the progressive movement.

And I never got my chance to visit the Enchanted Forest to meet my mother, to meet you. Instead, people in Oz began to think I was the villain, and then I became the one to blame for disorder and corruption with the Munchkins and the other oppressed people of Oz. I became the Wicked Witch, and even my sister was partially blamed for the hard times the realm was facing. And Rumpelstiltskin didn't help. I was becoming too powerful, Glinda and I and my sister were all powerful, but Glinda and I at least, we were good, and we wanted to make things better. "

"And what of Glinda? You obviously love her. What happened to her?"

The answer is swift and unmerciful.

"What happened to her?!" Zelena shouts, turning on Regina, eyes blazing. Her hands, she holds to the side and green smoke swirls from her fingertips. "You happened to her! Your curse happened to her!"

The water sloshes around in the fountain, some of it splashes out onto the stone as the images twist and morph violently, turning into a purple smokey mass. Regina recognizes her magic there, the purple billowing smoke, enveloping the land.

"You have to be the most selfish person in all the realms, Regina!" Zelena yells, raising her hands up into the air and Regina watches, astounded, as lightning and electricity discharges from the sky onto her half-sisters fingers. "You and that bastard Rumpelstiltskin, for enacting a curse that you didn't fully comprehend. Neither of you realized that a curse of that magnitude would have rippling effects on all realms!"

"Rippling effects," Regina repeats uncomprehendingly, brows furrowed.

"Yes. When you enacted your curse, it set off a chain reaction and in Oz, a cyclone tore through the lands, bringing that little wench Dorothy from the Land with No Color, landing her house on my sister, and the very same cyclone took away my Glinda."

"A cyclone?" Regina's eyes go wide, disbelieving.

"Oh yes, Regina." Zelena spits, and her body language screams aggression and anger and the need for redemption. "I watched you prepare for the curse, watched you spiral down into a dark enough place to enact the curse and knew that when you finally did, something bad would happen. I could just feel it. And it did, it certainly did. It set off cyclones and portals and twisting worlds. It's your fault and now you're going to help me find her."

Her hand shakes as she points back to the water; it changes scenes again and Regina watches it all unfold.

_The sky darkens rapidly, unexpectedly as Zelena and Glinda lay side by side on a blanket in a field of poppies, not far away from a castle in the distance, enjoying what looks like a picnic. Zelena's sister, it must be her because she's got the same dark hair, but now she's running awkwardly along the road in a pair of silver heels, the magical slippers that allow her to walk, and waving her arms frantically at the unaware pair. _

_The wind picks up and carries the sound of Nessa's voice elsewhere, and Zelena and Glinda do not hear her until too late. _

_But before either of them can stop it or protect themselves, an enormous twister emerges from the cloud, descending upon them with astonishing winds. _

_The scene is as dramatic as any movie Regina has seen. Nessa is already at the fence, holding onto a post for dear life, motioning and begging for her adopted sister to get there faster, as if a rickety fence post is enough to save them from such an enormous storm. Zelena reaches the fence first, manages to hold onto a post, her green hand contrasting, even in the dusty wind, sharply with Glinda's as the blonde finally reaches the sisters. Zelena holds onto Glinda tightly, shutting her eyes against the wind and the strain of her exertions._

_The howls and dust fills their eyes, and their grip on each other loosens second by second, the wind is becoming too much, and not even their combined magic can hold Glinda to the earth. She is whipped away, swirling around the vortex and in her place, a medium-sized house spins towards Zelena and Nessa. All the dust in the air prevents either of them from seeing it properly and Regina watches in horror as it lands right next to Zelena and directly on top of her sister. _

_There's no way anyone could have survived something like that._

_Two of the only family Zelena has left in the world and they're both gone within thirty seconds of each other._ The next moments are difficult to watch, but Regina keeps her eyes open. _Zelena falls apart, her knees hit the ground hard and her head swivels back and forth between the still form of her sister and the cyclone that disappeared back into the dark cloud it descended from._

_A crowd of people appears on the horizon, carrying pitchforks and short swords and all other manner of weapons, jeering and taunting and screaming for the death of the witch. Zelena, lost in her own misery, must make a decision before they reach her. _

_Flee the scene and try to recover, to pull herself back together enough to go on and save her love someday, or stay and let the mob have her. She stands up, summons her broom, taking one last look at her sister's still form and realizes too late that the crowd will get its hands on the silver shoes. And just then, as she rises higher and higher on the calming winds, Zelena catches sight of a young girl stepping from the house that landed on her sister. _

_The crowd of people, seeing that the girl has landed on the Wicked Witch of the East, celebrates her and lauds her as a hero and Zelena is nearly sick in the air as she flies farther and farther away. _

_Zelena's mouth opens in a silent, anguished wail,_ and the water ripples and blurs again with a brusque wave of Zelena's hand.

"You're going to help me find her," she repeats, the memory of that day still fresh and evident on her face. Regina feels awful for her, but she can't help but also feel backed into a corner, and allowing herself to be forced into something is not exactly her style. Zelena is a powerful witch. If she wants so badly to find Glinda, if she's even alive still, she can manage it on her own. Regina has other things on her mind, other things to mope about.

"And if I don't?"

"Oh, you will. If not out of the goodness of your heart, then I will find a way to force you. You see, I knew magic behaved differently in other lands, but here, I'm simply not as powerful. I can't open portals by myself, but you can, Regina. And you're going to find Glinda, if it's the last thing you do."

Regina looks down at the water, thinking back to the spells Zelena had thus far performed. None of them required any particularly powerful magic. She's right, though. To wield any sort of magic strong enough to open a portal or direct for that matter, where the travelers end up, a person needs a considerable amount of power. But in all honesty, this isn't her fight. This whole situation isn't even her fault.

"You know, I wasn't the only one who originally wanted the curse enacted, right?"

"Yes, I'm aware of Rumpelstiltskin's part in this whole act. Well aware. He is going to play his part in my production as well. But you did want your revenge on Snow White"

Regina nods. That much is true, but she doesn't regret it for a minute. "And it's not my fault Cora abandoned you. If you wanted revenge, it should have been on her."

Zelena fumes at this, whirling on Regina again, and her face colors a darker shade of green. "You got everything!" she screams, her fury returning as easily as it faded away. "Everything I ever wanted. A family, a good life, a true teacher and people who looked up to you! A land with people who obeyed you! You got it all because your skin just happened to be the right shade. And if it hadn't been for your senseless and blind need for vengeance, I would still have my Glinda. Or at least, I would have been the one to enact the curse. Rumpelstiltskin wouldn't have had another choice."

Regina's mouth gapes open, astounded at the wrath her half-sister is pouring out. Zelena's idea of exactly how Regina's life is skewed.

"I came after you, you know. After both you and Cora, after the curse hit and took Glinda and Nessa away."

Looking into the blazing eyes, Regina arches an eyebrow. "You came to the Enchanted Forest? How?"

"After those wretched Munchkins encouraged Dorothy, the girl from the cyclone, to take Nessa's silver shoes off her crushed body, they told her she was the best hope they had to defeat me. How she was going to that, I haven't the slightest. I was the enemy of the state after Rumple turned everyone against me, and even the Wizard wanted me dead. He sent Dorothy after me, along with a couple other Ozians whom I might have cursed and angered along the way."

She pauses then, looking sheepish. Regina knows how that goes.

"And I knew that the shoes were the key to traveling through the worlds. That's why Rumple was so upset that I had let them out of my sight. He knew they were powerful too. It didn't take much for me to capture the stupid girl, with the help of my flying friends," Zelena inclines her head up towards one of the ramparts, and Regina follows her line of sight. One of the winged beasts sits, muscles coiled and ready, wings folded at its back, at the top of the wall, watching everything closely.

"I took the shoes from her, tossed her directly into the open portal, sending her one way, and myself to the Enchanted Forest."

"How did you know where to go?"

Zelena shrugs. "I'd seen Rumpelstiltskin do it dozens of times with the Wizard. But by the time I got there, your curse had long taken effect, and Cora had already gone from the land, back to the Land without Magic, and as soon as I landed, I searched far and wide for Glinda, but I couldn't find her. So I took up residence in your castle and waited."

Taking a step towards her half-sister, Zelena sneers menacingly.

"And now here you are, so it's perfect. Now I will take all of your happiness from you, the same way you had to take Snow White's and everyone else's happiness."

"Too late," Regina mumbles, looking down, and wishing that cursed needle was still in her grasp. She's still left with a dull reminiscent ache. "Everything I love is already gone."

"I'm sure I can figure something out," she says. "We're sisters, after all. Our blood runs the same, so I know you've got some weakness. I just have to figure out what it is."

Regina watches as her half-sister conjures a broom from thin air, snapping her fingers and there it is. She straddles the handle and floats into the air, smiling at Regina all the while. Her erratic behavior and sharp mood swings worry Regina about this woman's mental stability.

"Come now, Chistery," Zelena calls out as she rises higher and higher above the castle walls, a bizarre laugh screeches behind her as she and the monkey fly away. "See you later, sis!"


	9. Chapter 9

**April 2, 2013**

I wake up that next morning, like any other morning, sleepy and ready to take on the fucked up world again, ready for another day of our usual survival trials, but then it all comes crashing back down on me. It all falls down around my ears because I remember all that you and I talked about last night. I remember everything. The fucking fairytales and the fucking zombies and everything about this past fucked up two days that I didn't want to remember and still do. I leave my room, still thinking that you're going to be in my living room, still sitting on my couch, but you're not, I know you're not. Because of the way you responded to me last night. I know that you felt bad for breaking in and infringing on my space. I know you did because I could see it in your face, so I've got a pretty good feeling that you're going to respect my space now and let me come around in my own time.

But do I want to? Do I really want to come around? Is this something that I can accept in my head? Is this something that I can live with, not really knowing for sure, just going off of what you tell me is the truth? Granted, I'm pretty sure I can tell when someone's lying or not, and I haven't seen many lies come out of your mouth.

So what's going to happen today? I haven't a clue. Well, strike that. I do have a clue. I want to try you two out again. I want to see if you'll turn on me, I want to see just how loyal you can be before I trust you enough to take me to wherever it is you want to take me.

Today, we're going on another run. And it's going to suck because I'm gonna have to tell the kid that he can't go again. He's going to be pissed. And bummed. But there's nothing I can do about it. So I drag myself out of bed, my feet whispering against the wooden floors again, I'm so accustomed to being silent that the habit stays with me. I'm quiet wherever I go, just in case. Just in case there's a sleeping child next door and I don't want to wake him, not that he'll wake because he's such a sound sleeper, or just in case there's a walker nearby because it'll hear me and come after me and try to eat me and my son. These instincts, they seem to ingrain themselves into a person, and I don't know how I'll ever stop exercising these habits.

I poke my head into the kid's room, and there he is, sound asleep still, his chest rising and falling softly beneath the thin blankets. He looks so peaceful like this, like nothing could ever hurt him and nothing ever will. I wish that was the case. I wish that drool leaking from his mouth and onto his pillow could be something he has every morning of his life, that he'll live a long life, to 90 or 100, not just to 15 or 16, if even that long. I want him to thrive. In this world or . . . I'm hesitant to say anything else.

As usual, he wakes slowly, talking about strange things when he rouses from slumber, about whatever it was he happens to be dreaming of, muttering all kinds of nonsensical words. But eventually he opens his eyes enough to see me and I tell him good morning. He smiles at me, his sleepy, one-eyed smile because he's still adjusting to the light and I nudge his knee with my hand.

"Time to get up," I say softly, because no one wants to be woken up to loud noises. "Let's go meet the people downstairs."

This perks him up considerably. He's so excited to meet new people apparently, I had no idea. Well, I suppose I did, that he was so starved for attention and social interaction. But he'll get it, that's for sure, if you are who you say you are and this Jack Sparrow guy is as much of a swashbuckler as he claims to be. The kid will love that. He'll love breakfast too. And I think I can rustle up some pancakes from our bisquick box for all of us.

We head downstairs together. The kid and I clomp all the way down to the lobby, and I have my gun at my hip again, although I hopefully won't have to use it. I take a quick peek inside the office where there are two neatly folded blankets and pillows on the couch and cot, where I'm sure you didn't actually sleep. You might have lain there in the night, but I doubt you slept much. Probably like me. Too much on your mind. As for the pirate, well, I have no idea how he probably slept, and I don't care all that much either. Granted, I did help save his life, so I do care a little.

But he's not the one I have the apparent magical connection to.

And the connection to the kid as well, whatever that connection is, magical or not. That small, scared voice is still whispering to me that you're a threat, that you want to take my kid, so I'm wary of course, and as we head out of the lobby to the courtyard, I grab hold gently of the kid's shoulder. When he looks up at me and I have his full attention, I give him my serious face along with a hint of worry. "Now listen, kid, I don't know these people very well, just met them yesterday."

"Right," he says. "You said you helped save the guy's life. That's awesome."

"Yeah, it's awesome. But still, we don't know them really, so we have to be careful. We have to watch what we say and watch how comfortable we are around them."

"Right," He says, because he remembers last time, getting too close, letting ourselves get emotionally attached. It was a mistake, we both know it now and we both know how critical it is not to make that same mistake twice. "So what are they like?"

He's genuinely curious, he really wants to know before we get out there so that he has some sort of an idea and isn't blindsided by these two. All I'm worried about is that we're both not blindsided by the fact that the two of you might end up being mass murdering psychopaths.

"They seemed okay yesterday," I say slowly, wondering if he believes my words because I'm not so sure that I believe them. "Like I said, I helped save the guy and the lady seems to know him, but they're not really from around here. So we're going to make them feel like home and then later today, I'm going to take them both out on another run."

"Another run?" His face falls because he knows what this means. This means he has to stay home and guard the fort again, this means he doesn't get to go with me, that he has to sit at home and worry for another few hours whether I'll come home or not, worry that I'll be eaten and he'll be left motherless, parentless, forced to fend for himself in the land of zombies. "Yeah, another one. I don't know where we'll go yet, because I really just want this to be sort of a test."

"Like an operation?" he says, his voice gaining momentum with excitement and I nod. "Exactly like an operation. I need to make sure they're with us, not against us, and I don't want to do that here in our apartment. I'd rather do it out there with the zombies so I can really test them and make sure."

He nods now, understanding what I'm up to and is more accepting of the fact that he doesn't get to go again today. "What do you want to call this operation?" I ask because he always names our missions with badass fierce animal names and this one will be no different, I'm sure. His eyes go towards the ceiling for a moment and his hand comes up to scratch at his chin thoughtfully.

God he looks like such a little kid when he does that. I wish he was still small. I wish he wasn't growing up so fast. He's about to be a teenager in full force and then a young man who will probably hate me and resent me and want to rebel against me. He'll probably want to leave and never see me again and then we'll both be left alone.

Whoa there, I'm going off on a tangent of worrying and self-doubt. Easy now. I take a deep breath, hoping he doesn't notice my temporary relapse into freaking out - ville.

"How about Operation Manhattan Project."

"Manhattan Project?" I ask, eyebrow raised. "Sure," he nods, like it's no big deal what he's talking about. "Like at the end of World War Two when the Americans were trying to come up with a way to end it and were trying to get to the secret of an atomic weapon before anyone else."

"Yeah, kid, I know what the project is, but why are we naming today's mission after that?"

He shrugs, and it's another childlike gesture that makes my heart melt. Now, I kill zombies and fight with my hands and climb trees and build fires and fix cars, but that doesn't mean I can't still break down a little and have my little heart just a tidbit broken by the small human being that lived in my belly for a few months.

"It fits, doesn't it?" he asks, his face earnest and full of that youthful innocence, despite the zombies and the death and destruction he's seen. "We live in Manhattan. And," he pauses for dramatic effect. "The world is going to end. So we need to figure out a way to stop it, and if that way is with an atomic weapon, or with supplies that you're going to get out on your run, because that's the only weapon we have left, well then so be it. So . . ."

"So what you're saying here is that we're working on our last resort?"

"Right. But we can think of something else."

"No, Manhattan Project is fine with me."

He nods and beams because he loves coming up with names like this for runs and missions and all those types of things. I'm just glad he still has an imagination.

"Okay, then. Let's go outside."

"Okay," he says, but I stop short before the door and he stops with me. "But, I should warn you," I say suddenly, because I've forgotten momentarily about the most important part. "I think they both might be a little crazy. Out in the world a little too long. So if they start talking about crazy stuff, just ignore them and go about your business."

No big deal. Hopefully he buys that. It wasn't really a lie and hopefully it wasn't as noticeable as I thought it probably was.

Anyway, he doesn't seem to care one way or the other because he just wants to see some new people, so we step outside into the bright morning sunlight, except this morning isn't as bright as the past mornings have been. This time it's a little cloudy and gloomy. I don't have my phone weather app anymore so I've taken to a little bit of weather predicting, a little amateur storm chasing.

Not really, I don't do that, and I'm terrible at predicting the weather. Really terrible, the kid will attest to that. It's awful, how inaccurate I usually am, but anyway. My eyes adjust to the morning grey light and I catch sight of both of you sitting at our small garden table. You've got your legs crossed daintily and you're sipping a cup of water while the Captain Sparrow guy is nibbling on a piece of jerky.

I've done a little bit of dehydrating pigeon meat and any other animals that I've managed to capture. He's chewing heartily on it, and yeah I know it's a little chewy but Jesus, he's really tearing into it. "Morning," I say brightly and you've both already looked our direction when the door swung open, but now we have your full attention. The kid gives you both a small wave and smiles, sort of shyly and nervously like young teenagers tend to do when they meet new people. I can't blame him, how much social interaction has he really had in the last year?

Not a whole helluva lot, and that's hard on a teenager. I watch you as he strides towards you, holds out his hand and introduces himself in a strong voice. Your eyes soften and I think for a moment that they're going to melt right off your face.

"Hi," he says as he stands in front of you. You take his hand and shake it within yours and if those aren't tears in the corners of your eyes, I think I may need to see an eye doctor. Anyway, he says, "I have a real name, but you can call me Bronx."

"Bronx," you repeat slowly, looking up into his face and giving him that heartbroken sort of look. "That's lovely. You're a Yankees fan, then?"

I stare at you curiously and so does the kid, because I thought you were from a different world. But you seem so familiar with him and you know about the Yankees and somehow you know him too. He smiles, excited about finally having someone to talk to about his favorite team, because I won't budge about my precious Red Sox and the antagonizing gets old sometimes.

"Yeah I am! You too?" Voice almost shaking with happiness, he lets go of your hand and his face lights up. Yours does too.

The kid and I pull up a chair to our small table, and you nudge a bowl in each our directions, both filled with canned peaches in syrup and the pirate hands us each a slab of pigeon jerky. Mmm, a hearty breakfast for all of us. It's hard not having a store you can just run down to and pick up any old thing you're hungry for. But what can we do?

Strangely, it doesn't faze me in the least that you've gone without prompting into my food storage and gotten what you needed, I guess because you got enough for the kid and me both, which makes it okay. Food is a hot commodity these days. It's everything really, next to water, and guns and other weapons. And not being a zombie of course. Nobody seems to mind the food selection; instead, all eyes are on the kid as he goes on and on about his favorite team in the world. They don't exist anymore of course, but that's not the point.

I thought the kid would be uncomfortable and a little shy around the both of you, hesitant at first to speak, but you surprise me by gently drawing him out, by getting him to talk about one thing that really makes him happy. The pirate does a pretty good job of it as well, laughing and joking with the kid while we eat.

You and Henry talk more about baseball, about the Yankees versus the Sox and past teams and players and I'm absolutely flabbergasted that you know who some of these people are. What in the hell have you been doing with your life, lady? Captain John Paul Jones doesn't look as easy going about all this 'baseball' nonsense. In fact, he doesn't even look sure about what baseball really is.

We finish breakfast after a while and I slap my hands on my knees, look back and forth between the two of you and ask if you're both ready to go. We haven't talked about what we're doing today or what I've got planned so I'm guessing that both of you are thinking that we're going to wherever it is that you want to take me. Well that's not the case yet. I'm not ready for that, and I want to see if I can trust you.

Although, one night spent with no problems seems to have done the trick pretty well. Well, mostly no problems. You did break into my apartment without using any sort of normal means.

"We're going on a little run today," I say confidently, in a tone that doesn't leave room for discussion, the type of tone that hopefully neither of you will argue with. But that's too much to hope for, I know.

Right away, you frown and the pirate's mouth hangs open.

"A run?" he asks, shaking his head a little from side to side like he doesn't understand what I'm talking about. "Yeah," I say. "I need a few more supplies and you two are going to help me get them."

"We are?" you ask, a little disbelievingly. Well of course I'm going to put you two to work. How else are you going to earn your keep here? "Yep," I say and set about gathering up the plates around the table. I place them all near the water bucket to be washed later and sit back down.

"You're leaving him here alone?" You ask, eyes wide, almost condescendingly. As if I don't know how to parent. Please.

"Yeah, mom leaves me alone all the time," the kid drags out, rolling his eyes and I kick him none too gently under the table. He jumps in surprise and hisses at me, and you don't seem to miss any of it.

Anyway, not like I'm trying to impress you with my parenting skills or anything. I just want to go out and get this over with, see how you two do and then get back. End of story. Well, I know it won't be the end of the story but I will be able to put some things, some doubts to rest in my mind.

So out we go, you and the pirate only get your own swords and I hand you a long machete when you tell me you've never shot a bow and arrow before in your life, and you mumble something about Snow White that I don't catch. I don't even want to know. Personally, I've got a shotgun that carries four rounds, double barreled and side by side. It's pretty nice actually, along with my nine millimeter and a knife.

I had to think up on the fly what we'd be going on this run for, owing in part to the fact that I got pretty much everything I needed yesterday at the grocery store. I figure we could go back around to the book store, maybe pick up something for Henry, clear out some more walkers, and I think there was once a coffee shop in there, maybe they've got some stored coffee beans and a grinder. Or better yet, maybe they have already ground and ready to brew coffee, and sugar and the creamer that lasts forever because it's not really cream. God that sounds like heaven. There's a hardware store down the street as well from that book store, so maybe we can swing by there and see if there's anything I could use.

Both of you follow close behind me as we walk, heading in the general direction of the bookstore and I'm aware of your presence behind me, my hairs standing on end, the electrical charge that I felt last night and yesterday is still ghosting through my nerves. And like I remembered from the night before, it was an addictive feeling, and I can't stop myself from wanting just a little bit more of it. But I keep my hands to myself, focusing on the street, sticking to the sidewalk and letting my eyes and ears and senses scan the street in front and to the sides, fully aware of any stray zombies that may lurch out of the shadows and come after us.

We're only met by a few on the way there, nothing serious, no herds, although I've noticed that they like to stick together for some reason, must be some remnants of their humanity. Besides that, all they have is this desire to consume, to destroy, to feed. It must be an addiction for them too, I think with a sideways smirk.

There's the bookstore and with a few hand motions, we sneak around to the back where there's a window open up the fire escape.

We reach the coffee shop part of the bookstore and you must have caught my smile because you pipe up, asking me what's so funny. You brush my arm as you pass, sending a thrill up my spine.

I shrug, incline my head to the side and shake my head. I'm not going to actually tell you that your touch is causing me problems, so I make something up. "Just haven't had a drink of coffee in too damn long."

"Neither have I," you agree and the pirate grunts his own agreement. Seems we're all a little overdue for some caffeine in this world. Fine by me. At least that's something we can all find common ground on. And maybe we can find a liquor store on the way back. More common ground, I'm willing to bet. Especially with the sea dog and an apparent evil queen. Those types of people always drink heartily don't they?

Inside, we all rummage around, searching cabinets and looking over up-turned appliances and broken mugs for just a smidgen of coffee. And there's some, finally, that I find back in a storage closet, a big 3 pound bag of generic, no name, already ground coffee. I don't care what kind it is, I just want to smell it. And I do. It smells incredible and I can't wait to taste it. It goes in my backpack and the next search is on for creamer and sugar. You manage to find some in a bottom shelf, and as you're bent over, my eyes are drawn to you.

Face serious, expression neutral, you're totally committed to this, to proving that you can be trusted, that both you and the sea dog can be. Even if it means looking for stupid coffee when my son is at the apartment by himself and there are zombies everywhere and we could probably be finding better ways to spend our time. But you're doing this anyway. When I finally realize I'm staring at your backside, it's too late. John Paul Jones has nudged me and is chuckling as he rifles through some old magazines he's found in the bookstore portion of the store. "Nice figure eh, Swan?"

"Damn it . . " I start, because he startled me and already he's backed off, wooden hand raised in defense. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just wanted to say that I understand. She's a fine specimen, certainly."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

He inclines his head towards you, as you continue rummaging around in the cabinet on your hands and knees. "Although, I have to say, I'd rather have you back in my personal quarters any day, love."

I don't hold back anymore. I've had it up to here with this guy and I'm sick of him. So I haul back and give him a swift, but not _too_ hard punch in the gut. It's enough for him to double over in a little bit of pain, and I'm hoping that will be enough to ward him off any future advances on me. You look up sharply at the harsh noise that leaves his mouth, meeting my eyes with a questioning look that turns quickly into smug satisfaction when you see what I've done.

Shrugging, I roll my eyes at the pirate and give you a half-smile. You seem to know what he's like.

The pirate hobbles away to nurse his wounded pride and we meander into the next section of the store, spending a few minutes perusing. I find myself watching you again, over the stacks; you're engrossed in a book, nose buried in it and completely oblivious to everything around you. An avid reader, I guess. I want more than anything to know what you're reading. I'm just about to head over there and ask you when I hear noises outside. Zombie noises. They're out there and it sounds like there are quite a few of them. Is it possible for these things to be getting smarter? Or have they been at this intelligence level the entire time?

Is there even an intelligence level when the majority of their brain isn't supposed to be working? I stuff a couple books in my pack, one of them the complete set of the Lord of the Rings for Henry, because I'm not sure that he's read of all of them, and I wanted to get Narnia as well, but didn't have time to find it before the noises.

The coffee is already in there, smelling delicious, but it's time for us to go. I catch your eye above the shelf and jerk my head sideways, indicating the door and that we need to get the hell out of here, you nod once, succinctly, and then the pirate is right behind us. We're out on the street in a flash and the walkers are behind us, moving faster it seems, hot on our trail.

I probably shouldn't call them walkers, because they are definitely capable of running if provoked. But it doesn't take long before we're out of their sight, sprinting down a long alleyway and back towards the park. Again. My eyes are drawn inexplicably to that spot near the lake where I felt your magic for the first time. It makes me shiver.

But I push that out of my mind because it's too addictive of a thought and I don't want it consuming my mind. What I do want, what I'd really like to find, I think to myself as we run, is a liquor store. Yes, that sounds just about perfect right now. After the two days I've had. There used to be one just around the corner here and . . . we turn it, seeing the destruction on the streets and the boarded up windows and weeds overgrowing planter boxes and cars crashed all over the place. But I'm bound and determined to try this out. It's just one more thing before we head back.

The door is bolted shut and windows are barred and boarded, but that hasn't stopped me yet. I pull out a leather pouch from my pack and kneel down in front of the door, instructing you and the pirate to keep a look out.

It doesn't take me long to pick the lock, after a few twists and turns of my tools and one satisfying click. We're in before any more walkers can find us. It's strange how often they seem to be lurking around corners and quite near us anytime we're out.

"Nice trick," the pirate says warily, afraid of being punched again, and you raise your eyebrows, apparently something, probably an insult is on your tongue. And I don't blame you. It's a common criminal's trick, but it's gotten me out of some tight situations so I'm not ashamed of it.

We look around the dust-laden store, and I lean the shotgun, opting for the close up maneuverability of my handgun for the time being, up against a cabinet as I look around. There's not much left, after the initial virus breakout, people rioted and raided stores, so most of the store is littered with broken glass and the faintly stale stench of beer. But I'm willing to bet there's a storage room and some leftover alcohol back there. There has to be. And sure enough, after crunching through the glass, we take a look into the back room and the pirate is the first to find it. A whole box of alcohol. He could probably smell it from a block away.

Several bottles are left, one handle of rum and several smaller bottles of various liqueurs that I'm not particularly interested in. We won't be making any mixed drinks later. No sirree.

What we will be doing is having a strong drink, a nightcap, a stiff one, whatever the hell you want to call it. I haven't been drunk in too damn long and you two seem like fun enough people to have a few with. That is, if you're up to it, and by the sour look on your face as you regard the mostly empty shelves and winding aisles of the store, that might not be the case for you. Maybe I was wrong about queens being particular to strong drinks.

I'm on the opposite side of the store, searching for any spare handguns or shotguns the owners might have left behind. It's a rare thing in the city, I know, but sometimes I get lucky. And it's like that bastard, who isn't such a bastard because he did after all give me the kid, always used to say, "It's better to be lucky than good." It's been quite true in this fucked up world.

But right at that moment, a series of bad and unlucky things happen all in a row. One: I hear a walker grumbling. And it's close by. Like, in the next aisle close by. And sure enough, as I poke my head around the corner, there he stands, all decayed and gaping at me, salivating and probably starving back to death. Second death. And then Two: there's a hole in the floor that I don't see. Of course there would be a hole. Of course. And as I step in it and almost break my ankle, it feels like, my handgun slips out of my hand, slamming against the floor and skidding just out of my reach. If, reader, you haven't guessed it, this is the third bad and unlucky thing that happens.

Fucking fuck. I'm stuck in the floor. And here comes the zombie, staggering towards me and it's happening so quickly that I don't have time to call out for help or to scream or even to think really. Is this how it's going to end? Me, stuck in a hole with a zombie at my neck and my kid at least two miles from me with no idea what's happening and help just feet away and my gun just out of reach. In a fucking liquor store. All for some rum.

Fuck. But, suddenly my senses come back to me and I whip out my knife, ready to fight this dead guy off when he gets close enough. But I don't need to in that moment, because you're there, hurrying around the corner with the pirate right on your heels, you pretty much tackle the walker, shoving him to the side with your shoulder and out of my path. You and he tumble to the ground in a heap and the pirate is on him too in a second as you roll out of the way. One stab, two stabs. That's all it takes to get him in the head and incapacitate him. I'm breathless. Speechless.

I look back and forth between you and the pirate and I don't know what to say.

You both just kicked that zombie's ass. I'm sure my eyes are wide as the Mississippi, but I just keep on staring as you and the pirate stand up straight, dusting off your leather clothes.

"Thanks," I say gruffly because I'm not good at saying things like that. Things like, thank you and I love you, and I miss you and you mean the world to me. That's not my thing really. I'm more of a less-talk-more-action type of woman, not so much for the mushy feelings. That should be a rule.

"You're quite welcome, love," the pirate says, giving me his most dazzling grin, despite the punch earlier. I'm thankful, yes, but that doesn't mean I want to sleep with him, sorry buddy. All you do is nod and step towards me and bend down, grabbing hold of my arm and wrenching me from the hole.

"Aghh," I cry out as I set weight on it, reaching up to bite my fist, trying to muffle the sound.

My foot's a little tender, okay a lot tender, from the fall in the hole, and it's going to suck trying to get back on it like this. But, I've got no choice. You two can't very well carry me. I wince as I stand on it fully and you look at me like you're going to ask if it hurts, if I'm all right, but you don't. And I'm thankful for that because I don't like showing weakness. Maybe that's something you and I have in common.

"Let's get back." I say, because I'm damned tired of going out on this pointless excursion. Time for **Rule #3 - Back to Home Base. **I should have already known that you two wouldn't hurt me or Henry, but then again, I couldn't have been sure. And I still need to be wary, just in case.

We start on the trek back home, looking out for more walkers and with me trying my damnedest to stifle my limp. It's sure as shit going to swell later. Damn it. It's getting to be late in the afternoon and the sun is starting to wink at us from behind the skyscrapers. Maybe you'd be willing to help me out with a little joint healing with that combined magic later. I'll have to ask.

_A/N - hey readers, thanks for sticking around. Everytime I see a new person follow the story or review t makes me smile and makes the times spent writing this worth it. Stay tuned because this story is out of this world!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N - hello everyone. A bit of crossover here with the Wicked (book) world. Enjoy!_

Overwhelmed and optimistic. How most of the people in the castle feel; overwhelmed by everything, by being whisked yet again into another world and having to start completely over without the 21st century amenities they had taken for granted in Storybrooke, by the fact that yet again, a wicked sorceress threatens their lives and livelihoods. And yet optimistic because they are home. This place, although none of them have seen it in almost thirty years, is where they grew up, where they made something of themselves, and where they built their lives and families.

But Neal and Belle are not feeling the same sentiments. Both of them have lost people near and dear to them. And like Regina, the feelings of helplessness and sorrow are indeed overwhelming, but optimism certainly doesn't accompany it. For Neal, he had only recently gotten to know his son, only recently discovered he had a son in the first place. And to have to say goodbye to Emma after making progress with getting close to her again broke him in ways he didn't know were possible.

He and Belle share those feelings, and not only that, they share a person they had lost. Rumpelstiltskin, while rough around the edges and certain of himself that he'd been lost to darkness, had redeemed himself in some ways. A man who had actively tried to change and be better for his son and for the woman he felt was his true love, while he had relapsed into darkness on many occasions, is someone Neal and Belle feel devastated about losing.

"We'll see them again, Neal," Belle says, reaching out a comforting hand to him, his head bowed and shoulders slumped.

Charming leans in, as they all sit around one of the long dinner tables in the great hall.

"Yes, you have to have faith. Snow and I know we'll see our daughter again."

"That's easy for you to say," Neal grumbles, leaning his head against his hand. "You've got true love and endless faith on your side. What do I have? Bad luck and bad genes."

"I don't think you have bad genes," Belle says quietly, and Neal smiles at her.

"Thanks," he says, sending her a half-hearted smile in return. His face flickers with a brief moment of hope as he scans the people sitting around the table. "You know, we never did see his knife. Perhaps he didn't stab himself. Maybe we can get him back?"

Belle frowns and Charming shakes his head. "He's gone, Neal. I'm so sorry, but you're going to have to focus on other things."

"I don't believe that."

Belle nods her agreement and turns to Neal. "Neither do I. There might be some answers in his castle. We should go there."

"I don't think that's a good idea," a startlingly strong voice sounds from behind the table. Regina, dressed still in her tight-fitting black gown, cleavage pressed up and full, hair still perfectly coiffed. Everyone at the table turns to look and sees a different person from the woman who had sneaked away and tried everything she possibly could to get away from her own existence.

Now she stands with her back straight, eyes clear and mouth set in a hard line, jaw clenched in some sort of simmering rage.

"Why not?" Belle asks, and the level of disdain she still holds for Regina after the former queen had kept Belle in captivity for so long is evident, still dripping from her voice.

"First of all because the castle would be in ruins, and secondly because," Regina says, sweeping her long gown out behind her as she steps to the head of the table. "I've just met with the Wicked Witch."

An audible gasp resounds through the hall, as Regina typically demands the attention of the room, and this night is no exception. Pounding footsteps resound behind the former queen, but she doesn't bother to turn around. Robin skids around the corner, head darting back and forth from the table full of former Storybrooke residents to Regina, standing as regal as ever and staring at him expectantly.

"You . . ." he starts, brow furrowing before he tries again. "You were just in your chambers a few moments ago. And I heard voices in the courtyard."

Regina rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes," she says, turning back to the table. "You've arrived just in time to hear the story." And under her breath, she says, "Now that I've released you from my freezing spell."

"Who is she?" Snow asks, leaning forward and pelting Regina with questions. "Did she try to hurt you? Why didn't you call for help?"

Smiling wryly at the dark-haired woman, Regina folds stiff arms across her chest. "I don't need help. Especially not from the likes of a thief like this one." She gestures with her head back towards Robin.

"And to catch you all up on what she told me," Regina goes on. "She's my sister, believe it or not. An unwanted daughter Cora decided to hide in another world."

"Your sister?" Charming's mouth drops open, and Regina smiles at the thought of flies buzzing in and out of that gaping hole in his face.

"Half-sister, yes. Cora left her in Oz to grow up with a governor's family, where she had an adoptive sister and grew up to find a lover of her own at school."

"So what's the problem, why's she so mad?" Grumpy says, his nose half buried in a pint glass at the opposite end of the table.

"Apparently, my curse to send all of us to Storybrooke in the first place had more lasting problems than I anticipated. It ended up ruining her life as well as all of yours. Her lover is missing because of it and her sister is dead."

"Your curse did all of that?" Snow asks, her mouth mirroring her husband's. Regina nods, trying her best to ignore their similarities.

"It did. And she's mad, not only at me, but also at you, Snow, for being the reason I cast the curse in the first place."

"But," Snow shakes her head with an indignant frown. "I didn't choose to be taken away into another world without my daughter and with a husband on the brink of death; that was your doing. And besides that, it wasn't just your curse. You enacted it for Rumpelstiltskin; it's his fault as much as anyone's."

Regina rolls her eyes because there is so much she could say back to Snow, so many hurtful things she could bring up, like Daniel and Cora and her whole life being ruined and setting off their own domino effect of revenge and murder. But she refrains from that, knowing that it's fruitless and that it's (mostly) all behind them now.

"I'm aware of that," Regina says, sparing a brief glance to the former princess, now interim queen, seeing as how Regina no longer wants the job, nor is wanted for the job, she's guessing. "But the Wicked Witch, her name is Zelena, is not. In fact, she's jealous of all that I had. A home, a proper teacher of magic and a father and mother who loved me unconditionally."

"But . . ." Charming butts in, because he saw firsthand the wreck Regina was when Daniel was brought briefly back to life, how torn up she was, and he knows, and Snow knows, just how far off the mark Zelena is concerning Cora's unconditional love for Regina.

"I know," Regina cuts him off, not wanting to rehash the past, because everyone knows by now what Snow did to her and what she did to Snow and what Cora did to both of them. "But the real issue here is that of her paternal lineage."

All eyes are on her, listening raptly because it must be someone they all know. Oh, if only they had any idea the train wreck about to hit them. She almost smiles at the thought of laying down such shocking news. Almost.

"Rumpelstiltskin."

Another gasp echoes throughout the room. And that's difficult to do, shocking these people, considering all of them are living fairy tales, literal representations of children's stories from another realm. Nothing should surprise them. Except this, this twisted turn of events.

"There's no way," Neal says, looking thoroughly unhappy about this news. As if he had any say about what his father was up to during his absence to other realms. Regina nods knowingly.

"I thought the same. How could my mother see something in that monster?" She watches, almost gleefully, at the outrage painted on Neil's face. It's too easy sometimes. Belle, too, glares at her from across the table. She's one of the few, Regina admits to herself, who has just cause to be mad at her still. But why she still pines after the imp, Regina hasn't a clue.

"But I realize that he was lonely, searching for his son for so many years, and to find a pupil as promising as my mother. . ." Regina shrugs, ignoring Neil's now reproachful expression and continues, turning her gaze to Snow and continues.

"It makes sense, I suppose. When Cora landed herself into trouble at Princess Eva's birthday party for lying about being able to spin straw into gold, he appeared to her, and they struck a deal that he would teach her magic in return for her firstborn child. She succeeded with the gold and won Prince Henry's hand in marriage the next morning, but they had a year before the wedding. And, seeing as Cora didn't love my father, she fled, called it a vacation before the wedding. She wanted to escape her responsibilities with Rumple, and so they ran off, traveled the realms together."

"So what happened then?" Snow asks, and Regina turns her attention back to the rest of the group.

"She became pregnant and hid that fact from Rumple, knowing what giving up her firstborn would mean. Not only that, but somehow the child turned out to have green skin."

"So that part's true then?" Grumpy calls out from farther down the table and Regina suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

"Yes, her skin is still green. And that, besides being born of wedlock, is one of the reasons Cora decided to give her up, to leave her with a family in Oz. And now that's she's grown up and visited the wizard there, Zelena was able to contact Rumpelstiltskin, who trained her further in magic and told her all about our world. He enjoyed having a daughter, I think, until she became ever more powerful, and naturally then, Rumple tried to sabotage everything in her life, although from what she said, most of her life was close to shambles anyway thanks to the revolution or whatever it was going on at that point in Oz."

Regina waits for something else reproachful from Neal or Belle, but when no retort comes, she goes on. "And she knew about my curse, of course, was somehow watching the entire time. But when I finally cast it, apparently it had lingering consequences on other realms as well as ours. A cyclone brought a young girl named Dorothy to her land, while simultaneously killing her adopted sister and taking away her lover, Glinda, to another realm."

A brief pause, before a round of 'what?' 'that's not possible' 'this is the craziest thing I've ever heard' and 'what will we do now's resounds throughout the hall. Regina holds her hands up and silence ensues. "Yes, I know. But that's what happened and now she wants her revenge. Not only that, but she mainly wants her lover back from wherever she was taken. And where that is, I haven't a clue."

"So, all that being said," Belle says slowly. "Why is it that we shouldn't go looking for a way to bring Rumpelstiltskin back? Maybe he could help us straighten things out with her, convince her that she didn't miss out on all that much."

"Yeah," Neal says hopefully. "Maybe he could tell Zelena where Glinda might have been taken."

Regina can only shrug noncommittally. "Perhaps. But I think the most logical place for Zelena to go next is Rumple's castle, ruins or not, just to scope things out and make sure all is as I said. So, unless you'd like to be turned into monkeys, I suggest you not go anywhere near that castle."

"I agree," Charming says, sitting up tall and as regal as he can manage in his seat. Again, the urge to roll her eyes is only just tamped down. "It seems too dangerous, and besides, it's a fruitless quest. There's no way to bring him back."

"You don't know that," Neal says angrily, standing up and pushing his chair back with a squeak against the stone floor. Belle accompanies him. "There's always another way."

...

_The next morning_

**The man and woman sneak through the front entryway of the partially restored castle, their footsteps making hardly any sounds. **

**Blue eyes glint menacingly from around the corner, and long green fingers slip silently out of sight. Zelena stays in the shadows, knowing that now is not the time to be seen, not after everything she's gone through to get what she needs so far. **

**She'd been only slightly disappointed that it wasn't Regina coming to pay her a visit after their discussion the previous night. And having no blood from either of these two, Zelena is unable to use her looking glass, having to get up close and personal to see what these two are looking for. **

**It is a magnificent device, one made specifically for her many years ago by one of her adoptive mother's passing lovers, a glassblower from the Quadling Country. She'd used it since before she could speak to catch glimpses of the future, however blurry and sporadic. Usually a simple drop of a person's blood does wonders for many magical objects, and this one is no exception. Zelena discovered it when the Wizard himself accidentally bled upon it and thereafter she found the ability to watch his every move. **

**But at the moment, she has neither Baelfire nor the woman's blood and cannot see them when she wants, so Zelena remains where she is, hidden around the corner but within earshot.**

**Thinking back to the night before, when she had used Regina's blood on the looking glass, she had been able to see and hear everything Regina did.**

**After listening to Regina's warning to the rest of the group about Rumple's castle and Zelena, she knows this duo is expecting her, but at the moment, Rumpelstiltskin's son and current, or former she should say, lover seem unfettered by anything Regina said to them before. And the castle was indeed in shambles when she first saw it, but the few spells to help out the library, as exhausted as it made her, seem to be holding the walls up for a while at least. **

**Everything has already been set up. All that needs to happen now is for the fools to take the bait, and if her instincts are right about this young woman, this Belle, all her pieces will fall into place. The young woman has bright, curious eyes, and from the pages and pages the woman left here in her journals going on and on about her beast and how misunderstood he is and how dearly she wants to help him see the good in himself, Zelena knows how well this plan will work. And not only did the woman drone on and on about Rumpelstiltskin, but judging by her writings, Belle has her mind singularly set on books and knowledge and finding things out about the world around her, and that is the perfect trait for the bait and switch Zelena has in mind. **

**The duo wanders into the library, and Belle's eyes light up at the sight of the room built just for her, to keep her happy while in the beast's captivity, even if it looks like hundreds of years have passed and a nuclear bomb went off nearby. But Baelfire on the other hand, he looks quite different, face holding apprehension and unease, and Zelena understands that feeling all too well. The feeling of abandonment by one's parents, oh yes, Zelena knows all about that. Baelfire wants nothing more than to see his father again, to mend the broken relationship that tore their lives apart and sent Rumpelstiltskin on his fateful quest. But at the same time, he's anxious about it, surely knowing that if he succeeds in bringing his father back, there will be consequences. There are always consequences. **

**And just as Zelena expects her to do, Belle heads straight for the dusty books, knowing that if there is an answer, it can be found in a book.**

**"What's the plan, Belle?" Baelfire asks, climbing over a fallen and crumbling chair and sending up a dust cloud as he follows the earnest woman. **

**"If there is anyone who can resurrect Rumple, it'll have to do with the Dark One, and if there is a way to do it, we'll find it here." **

**"You really believe in him don't you?" **

**Belle turns her head back, glancing at Baelfire confidently with a gentle smile, the smile she probably reserves for Rumple himself. "I love him. All of him, even the parts that belong to the darkness."**

**The man's eyes are downcast, his fingers toy with a silvery charm on his necklace. "Irony is, now I need the dark parts to get to the ones I care about."**

**"What's that?" Belle eyes the charm while her hands bring down several books, and it's obvious that she knows this library front to back. That's the reason Zelena knew she had to be careful about introducing a new book into the mix, it had to be in a secretive place that Rumpelstiltskin might have hidden it. **

**"It's Emma's, it's supposed to represent our life together. I dunno how it survived our trip."**

**"Well," Belle says confidently and Zelena wants to laughs at her tone, at her utter and blind belief in this thing called True Love, this notion, this concept that a certain kind of love can be stronger than the rest. But she can't laugh because she believes in it too, more fully than anything she's ever believed in before and Zelena can't help but hate herself just a little for it. **

**Never was she, a hardened adopted orphan whose real parents abandoned her, supposed to fall victim to the charms of another, to fall under another's spell, a spell more powerful than any magic she had been taught, a type of magic that has consumed her and keeps her full of wanting and desire and a need to be near, a need to hear that voice and look into those eyes, those incredibly clear blue eyes. **

**Zelena refocuses on the conversation taking place around the corner. It's integral to her plan that everything goes as it should in here. "It must have been born out of True Love," Belle says simply, and Zelena wonders what must have happened to this 'Emma'. "Now come with me." **

**"You think there's magic in here?"**

**"No," Belle shakes her head, thumbing quickly through pages. "Books. All kinds of books. Books on the Dark One too."**

**Both Baelfire's eyebrows raise in wonder, and Zelena is glad at that moment that Rumpelstiltskin has endless tomes on all sorts of subjects, and especially books about what it's like to be the Dark One. **

**"Where do we start?"**

**"One at a time..." Belle fades off, already lost in a book, but Zelena knows just how quickly she'll find the correct book, if she's as much of a bookworm as she claims. And sure enough, thirty tik toks later, the woman proves herself and her familiarity with the library when she pulls the dusty volume from the very back of a shelf, waving a hand in front of her face to clear the dust cloud her movement brings forth. **

**"Whatcha got there?" Baelfire moves closer, narrowing his gaze. Belle hasn't taken her eyes off of it, because it seems to be a book she hasn't encountered before, perhaps too far in the back and hidden from sight. **

**"It's a very old book," she says slowly, opening it with trepidation and leafing delicately through the first few pages. Perfect, Zelena thinks, as Belle continues looking, and it won't be long before she comes across the correct passage, the instructions for resurrecting the Dark One. **

**And she certainly does. With Baelfire peering over her shoulder, Belle gasps loudly, her finger finding the ancient black script and reads aloud, her voice finding an ancient language that Zelena hoped she would understand and translate. **

**"What language is this?" Baelfire squints at it, but Belle's eyes are already scanning the page. **

**"Kekuatan untuk mengalahkan," she murmurs, struggling over the words and looks up briefly at the man. "Ancient Sanskrit. It's where the blade originated. A Kris dagger, a weapon of spiritual importance."**

**Baelfire purses his lips. "And you can understand it?"**

**"Of course I can," she says quietly, sounding a little insulted. She takes a few more moments to read through the text before she begins reading aloud, her finger still trailing the scripted, handwritten words. **

**"The power to vanquish the Dark One lies in this text. Reader be warned. The Dark One is a powerful, evil being and if this being is already subdued into the underworld, it is most strenuously advised that he remain that way. If these warnings are ignored, and the reader wishes to free the Dark One from his eternal prison, the reader must prepare to shed blood. One must follow the map to the Dark One's tomb, and once there, the key is all the reader will need. "**

**"Okay," Baelfire breathes, looking around. "A key, a map. Where do we find this stuff?"**

**Belle turns to him, concern written over her face. "Are you sure about this, Neal?" **

_**Neal?**_** Zelena thinks. A nickname perhaps for Baelfire? "Didn't you hear what this warning just said? Bloodshed and underworlds. This doesn't sound good to me." **

**Baelfire's face remains stubbornly set. "There's a way to get him back. And if that means I have to spill a little blood, a little of my own blood even, that's fine. He'll know of a way to get back." **

**His family, yes, of course, Zelena thinks. And that's the key to all of this. This Emma person.**

**"Okay," Belle says hesitantly, but she doesn't look convinced, and that's just fine with Zelena because if it didn't sound real enough, dangerous enough, neither of them would believe it. "Then I believe I have the map and the key here." **

**She opens the next page and out falls a folded up map, yellowed and crinkled, but readable. Of course it's readable. "And the key?" **

**Belle turns the page again, holding the book up, and it sags in her hands, like it's heavier than it should be. In the space where more words should be, there is a cutout perfectly formed for a key. The key rests, innocently enough in its alcove, simply waiting for a pair hands to come along and fit it to its lock. **

**"Okay," Baelfire says, standing up straight and looking around the deserted library. "Let's get started then." **

**The branches are heavy with snow, dark and damp and the thought of touching that wetness with her bare skin makes Zelena squirm. Ignoring the bitingly cold wind and the way her teeth have begun to chatter, the witch eases her broom down, settling herself on a high but sturdy branch, close enough to hear their conversation, but far enough away and camouflaged so that the duo won't see her. She nods in satisfaction as Chistery lands nearby on a higher branch, silent as the grave. **

**It's dark already, the sun hidden well behind the mountains and trees early in the evening as it tends to do in the winter months. Baelfire and Belle have been wandering since mid-afternoon, when they first set out upon their quest. And now, they look as miserable and frozen as she feels. Gripping the tree's trunk with her gloved hand, Zelena leans closer to hear their snow-muffled voices. **

**"Ever since that night, I can't stop thinking about his sacrifice," Baelfire says, his tone speculative. "He died to save everyone."**

**"He did it to save us. It's what family does."**

**Zelena wants to throw a snowball at her for that, for her blind belief in family and their loyalty. **

**"He died a hero," Baelfire says quietly.**

**"Were you surprised he had it in him?"**

**"I don't know," Baelfire shrugs as they trudge heavily through the snow, and at least now they have an idea of where they're headed, having finally found the enormous pine tree hewn into the map. "He wasn't the most selfless guy, and I know he regretted letting me go through that portal, but I can't imagine him doing what he did."**

**"He was willing to do anything to get back to you," Belle says with surety. Everything she does seems to be with surety. But Zelena knows firsthand just how badly Rumpelstiltskin had tunnel vision when it came to his son. If only he'd had that sort of devotion to her. **

**"That's one thing we can relate on. I'll do anything to get back to him."**

**And suddenly they find the right spot, in the center of the clearing, and all Baelfire has left to do is clear away several inches of snow and put the key in. Zelena holds her breath, watching as they kneel down together, scraping away the white powder and uncovering an intricately carved metal trap door, the center of it perfectly suited for the key. **

**"The Dark One's vault," Belle says, and for the first time, her features are etched with fear. **

**"You sure about this?" **

**"Of course not," Belle says, sitting back on her haunches. She seems to only now come to her senses about following a book's instructions about how to resurrect a dead man, but Baelfire remains staunchly unmoved. "I have no idea if this will work, Neal."**

**"It's probably not a very good idea, is it?"**

**"Probably not," Belle says, but Zelena can see by his expression that he simply doesn't care. Belle steps back but Baelfire makes up his mind within a second, lunging towards the door with the key before Belle can stop him. But she does try. **

**"Wait, Neal!" she cries and he pauses at her tone. "I have a bad feeling about this. We need to leave this place!" **

**Her snow flecked hair is stark against the white backdrop, and Zelena can just make out the pained expression on her face as she yells for him to stop. A little too late for that, my pretty. **

**The snow is falling harder now, almost completely muffling their voices. His hesitation won't last forever, not when he's so desperate for his father, but on the off chance Belle can convince him not to do it, well, Zelena simply can't take that chance. She knows now that she must take action. It's time to reveal herself to two more people. The branches bend silently as she descends through them, standing sideways on her broom as it takes her to the ground. The duo sees her before they hear her, and she can see the trepidation on their faces. They were expecting her at the castle, she knows that, but right now she's caught them by surprise. **

**"You!" Belle says, pointing a finger towards Zelena. "This was a trap, wasn't it?"**

**"Of course it was," Zelena cackles, throwing her head back into the falling snow. But a few flakes land on her skin and the wet feel of it makes her want to crawl inside herself. "You knew what to expect. My sister warned you both about me, but did you heed her words?"**

**The duo remains quiet. Zelena turns her attention to Balefire, who is still kneeling in the snow, key held aloft and frozen in his hand. **

**"It's the only way, you know," she says gently to him, and she can see in his eyes the same feeling she's had her entire life. Abandonment. But there's always hope, always the hope of an orphaned child that they will come back for you. Baelfire almost nods, looking back to Belle with apology now in his eyes. **

**"Neal, no," Belle says, frozen to the spot because closer to Baelfire means closer to Zelena. "She wants control of him. This won't end well. It can't!"**

**"We can bring him back," Baelfire cries out, shuffling on his knees a little closer, just close enough to fit the key in the lock. **

**"Rumple didn't sacrifice himself so he could be a slave to evil."**

**"My father is the king of loopholes. I'm sure he can find a way out of it," he sounds desperate, and Zelena could kiss herself because it is so simple, so easy.**

**"Think of what she could do with the Dark One under her control," Belle doesn't give up easily, that's for sure. "There has to be another way."**

**"What if there's not another way?" He counters. "I have to take my chance. I need to get back. "**

**"Don't do this, Neal, don't repeat your father's mistake."**

**But Baelfire doesn't listen. He places the key in the lock, covers the entire thing with his hand and turns it. After a moment, a sizzling noise followed by the pungent smell of burnt flesh fills Zelena's nostrils. With a scream, Baelfire wrenches his hand away, staring at it for a moment before he shoves it open-palmed into the snow, where it hisses and pops as the flesh rapidly cools. **

**And from the metal trap door, a multitude of sounds erupt into the silent evening. A sliding, metal sound of the door opening, the thick gurgling of a black oily liquid, and then a squishing noise interrupts the quiet night. A dark form emerges from the hole, from what looks like sludge from the River Styx, drowning and choking those angry souls in the fifth circle of hell. The dripping form that slaps itself into the snow trembles once, takes the shape of a man, and then stands up. **

**The creature shakes itself, almost dog like, and the sludge comes free, revealing the man beneath, the Dark One. Rumpelstiltskin. **

**But before anyone can say anything, before Rumpelstiltskin can enjoy even one moment of reunion with his long lost son, or with his lover, Baelfire cries out, grasping at his chest. **

**Whipping around at the noise, the Dark One's face crumples, and his steps are a blur as he moves towards his son, wrapping his arms around Baelfire's body and holding him. He caresses Baelfire's head as the man writhes in pain, growing pale even in this half-light. **

**"Bae, no."**

**The Dark One takes his son's burned palm and stares at it, understanding the reason for his son's suffering at once. He sees the mark, but can't comprehend how Baelfire could have been made to do something like this. But when he glances around, taking stock of his surroundings, he sees Belle and then Zelena. And she can see in Rumpelstiltskin's eyes that he now understands. **

**Zelena takes another step towards father and son, holding up the book she used to trick Belle and Baelfire, smiling all the while. "Belle was right. Poor Baelfire. He never learned from his father's mistakes, would do anything to get back to his son."**

**"Zelena. You did this, you tricked him," Rumpelstiltskin accuses, his eyes flaming with anger and malice. **

**"All I did was pass on some information," Zelena shrugs innocently. **

**"You didn't tell him the price."**

**"Oh dear. I thought it was rather obvious: a life for a life."**

**Belle gasps from somewhere in the background, and Zelena inwardly pats herself on the back. "You said spilled blood! That's all the book said!" Belle cries, and Zelena tosses the battered volume on the snow at her feet. **

**"I certainly did say that, and there certainly will be bloodshed."**

**"You'll be all right, son," Rumpelstiltskin says desperately, but Baelfire is unresponsive, unconscious perhaps from the pain. He turns back to Belle. **

**"Go, Belle. Run." **

**She does what he says albeit reluctantly, sprinting off through the snow, perhaps to fetch help. It will be too late, but more than likely, dear old dad doesn't want his lover to see what he's about to do. **

**Rumpelstiltskin closes his eyes briefly, probably trying to think of another way, and then pulls the dagger out from the depths of his cloak. Belle is long gone, and the only one to witness The Dark One's relinquishment of his power is Zelena. **

**Holding the dagger up, Rumpelstiltskin's voice reaches her from beyond the snow flurries. "I'm not going to let him go." **

**As his last ditch effort, his last chance, he sends a burst of magic through both himself and Baelfire, hoping perhaps to hold on to both his power and Neal, but to no avail. His son remains unconscious and he realizes that it won't work. And in a sudden release, Rumpelstiltskin tosses the dagger across the snow and it sinks in a few inches before Zelena bends over to pick it up, reveling in the feeling of powerful electricity that seeps through even her thick leather gloves.**

**"I didn't think you had it in you," she says scathingly but his eyes are only for his son. Zelena resists the urge to slit both their throats. That would not be beneficial to her plan, no, not in the slightest. **

**"Here's what's going to happen, dear old dad," Zelena says, and finally he meets her gaze. "I'm going to make a deal with you. Baelfire here has to pay a price for bringing you back, and normally that price would be death."**

**She pauses, enjoying the despair on his face. "But for you, I'll make an exception. Especially because I'm going to need the both of you to carry out what I have in mind. So, because you so kindly gave up the power over the Dark One, I'm willing to let Baelfire go on living."**

**Relief washes over his features. "Indeed, I will need him to return with Belle to my sister and the rest of their group to warn them about upcoming horrors. But you will stay with me, Dark One, and help me with my quest."**

**"Your quest," Rumpelstiltskin questions. "What are you talking about? Revenge against me for sabotaging you?"**

**Her mouth makes a gentle clicking noise, a tsk sound reserved for children. "Dear old dad, no, no. I'm past that. It's your curse that I'm angry about, the curse my sister enacted, the curse designed so that you could find your other child. That curse had greater effects than you thought it would."**

**"All the way in Oz?" **

**"That's right," Zelena nods. "That cyclone took away my Glinda, and you're going to help me find her. You and your Dark One powers."**

**Rumpelstiltskin can only watch in silence as the witch stalks back and forth, steam issuing from her mouth in the cold night air. She pauses mid-step and stares down at him with a flourish of her hand, the dagger glints in the half-light. **

**"Now, enough talk. Let's you and I get back to your castle shall we?" **

**With a jerk of the dagger, Rumpelstiltskin is on his feet, and Baelfire crumples to the ground in an unconscious heap. "But what about Bae? You said he could go back." **

**"Yes, yes, of course," Zelena says nonchalantly, waving her hand. "Chistery! Come here my dearest."**

**And one of her flying monkeys swoops down from a nearby tree, landing gently in the snow. He sends a glare and a hiss towards the glittery imp before scooping Baelfire up in his arms. **

**"Good, Chistery," Zelena instructs the monkey. "Now, get one of your companions to give our dear friend Belle a lift as well, back to Regina's castle. Oh, and don't forget, I'll need a few drops of Baelfire's blood when you return."**

**The monkey chitters his obedient response and takes flight, swooping easily out of the clearing and above the treetops, becoming almost invisible in the snowfall. **

**"Wonderful," Zelena says with a grin. "Now, let's get out of the cold, shall we?"**


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N - extra long chapter for you. hope you enjoy it.**_

**April 2nd**

The radio crackles with feedback as I call in to the kid that we're on our way, and the feelings of relief blooming in my gut surprise me. I always feel like this when I'm returning to him, when I've been out doing whatever it is I've been doing and then I come back, it's a good feeling, knowing my kid is in there safe and that he's waiting for me. Eventually I'll have to let him out and teach him everything I know about surviving out here, but for now, I just want to keep my son a kid as long as possible. Even in this fucked up world, I want him to have a childhood. Impossible, I know.

When we reach the gate, I unlock the padlock and you two again watch around the perimeter for any stray walkers. There don't seem to be any around and we get in the place with no issue. And there he is, grin from ear to ear, jogging from the lobby out to meet us in the courtyard.

"Hey kid," I say and his eyes are fixed to my foot, seeing right away that I'm limping and that something has gone wrong. Perceptive, isn't he?

"What happened?" His face falls into a mask of concern as he approaches and I wave him off, trying to act like it doesn't hurt at all. I don't particularly want to tell him what happened out there, that I came pretty damn close to seeing the end. Although, now that I think about it, some of that 'magic' could have saved me. "Nothing, nothing. Just twisted my ankle. Could you get me something frozen from inside?"

"Sure thing," he says and jogs off in the other direction. I catch your expression as he goes. A half-smile and a tilt to your head. It's like you really care about him but you don't even know him. You know how you can always spot a parent by the way they respond to your kids, or by the way they talk about their own? That's the feeling I'm getting from you, like you know exactly what it's like to come home to a kid like this.

"Here," says the pirate as he pulls up a chair for me. I want to roll my eyes and sit in a different chair just to spite him, but I restrain myself. "Sit for a spell. R - . . ." he catches himself, almost saying your name, whatever the hell it really is. "We'll whip up some dinner for all of us, won't we?"

"That's a good idea," you say, smiling and turning to me as I collapse heavily into the chair. "I suppose it's the least we could do after you've let us stay here. What would you like?"

I shrug because there aren't many options in our food storage. "Whatever we have is fine with me. I'm not picky. You might ask the kid though."

You rub your hands together, wandering off in the direction of the storage closet.

When the kid brings back the package of frozen meat, I lay it gingerly on my ankle and prop the whole leg up on the table. And because I can't really move, I direct the kid about where to put all of our new found supplies and the first most important thing, the long-awaited coffee, he puts in the lobby for us to have in the morning. The coffee pot won't take up much power and it will be well worth it. The other most important thing is the rum, which sits next to me in my backpack. That will be for later.

Or maybe now. Yeah, it'll help with the pain, I tell myself as I open the lid and take a hearty swig. ACK! Strong.

You and the pirate have armfuls of ingredients and set them out with a few pots and pans around the grill. While you both go through the motions of the prep work, you remember something and turn to the kid.

"I picked up something for you at the bookstore, d - " you catch yourself, stopping your lips from letting one form of endearment or another out. He looks up from the garden, where he's tending to some of the newly sprouting herbs. Strange.

"It's there on the table," you say, nodding with your head because your hands are busy. The kid doesn't waste time hurrying over to it and picking the item up, holding it carefully in his hands. It's a book, looks small and from here, I can't tell what the title is.

"What is it?" I ask, seated opposite of where you and pirate are cooking on the grill.

"Hatchet," he says, holding it up to me and a whole slew of memories flash into my mind.

"That's a good one," I say, nodding at the book. It was one of my favorites, as a young teenager, not that I read all the time. But when I did, books like Hatchet really spoke to me. A kid, not much older than mine right now stranded by himself in the wilderness, faced with his own survival. Now, granted, my kid has me now, unlike myself at his age who had no one at all. We're still struggling for survival in this world, though.

"I've never read this one," he says, absorbed already in the back cover and one glance at you tells me you're relieved, I'm sure, that he doesn't have this one.

"Thanks," he says, looking up at you long enough to smile warmly. You return that smile and go back to what you're doing.

The kid's had his nose buried in the book for the past hour now and the food is ready just as the sun begins to set. You've made some sort of bread in a pot over the fire, not with the Bisquick but with actual flour and baking powder and soda. It's a little lopsided, because the powder and soda have probably gone bad. I don't really know because I don't bake or ever use those things. I'm surprised we even had those ingredients. And Jolly has put together some sort of stew using a couple of canned soups and vegetables from the garden and our storage.

We sit down to eat and Jolly jumps back up again, claiming to have forgotten something. He comes back with a bowl filled with those little mandarin oranges in syrup. A shared look passes throughout the table, but the pirate holds up his hands defensively.

"Everyone knows it keeps the scurvy away," he says quite seriously.

"Scurvy?" I say, eyebrow raised suspiciously. The kid pipes up.

"Oh, I remember this. It's for the Vitamin C. Because scurvy is when you don't have enough of it."

My head shakes incredulously and your mouth turns up with an expression that almost looks like pride. "You really do read a lot, don't you?" I ask the kid, nudging his elbow with my arm. He nods.

"Are you enjoying the book?" you say and the kid lights up again. He's been flipping through it all during dinner.

"It's great," he exclaims. "It was sad at first, but I love reading about his plans to set up a place to live." He pauses to look at me. "It's kind of like what we did here, isn't it Mom?"

I nod and I know your familiar heart-melting expression is now written all over my face but I don't care.

"Your favorite types of books are the ones about adventure?" Jolly asks, and the kid responds vigorously. "Yeah, anything with a good, exciting plot. And if it has a hero who saves the world and gets the girl, I'm there."

"Hey," I protest and the pirate throws his head back to laugh. "That's my kind of story as well, lad," he says with a wink towards me and I want nothing more than to punch him again. This time in the smug face. But there you are, rolling your eyes and sitting back in your chair.

"Don't be ridiculous," you say scathingly to Jolly, with just a hint of a smirk. "You've never been the heroic type."

I want to laugh at this remark, but I hold it in, watching the exchange between you and the pirate with interest, wondering to myself how long you two have known each other.

"I'll have you know, I've been known to participate in noble acts befitting the good and the virtuous."

"If it suits your prerogative, that is," you scoff. He dips his head.

"Yes, yes. Well, on a different, but related note, and speaking of adventures," he says, steering the conversation away from his apparent lack of heroics. From behind him somewhere, he pulls out three glasses, setting one down in front of everyone but the kid and pours out two fingers of rum. No one objects and god knows I need it. "I do believe it's time we embarked upon an adventure of our own, wouldn't you say?"

He's looking at me and soon I can feel yours and the kid's eyes on me as well. The kid, when I look at him, his expression is questioning, and it asks, 'adventure, what adventure? Can I come too?'. And your expression is agreeing with Jolly's and of course I know what you two are asking me, but I don't really want to talk about this right now.

"I'm not sure yet," I say noncommittally, because I was hoping to avoid this altogether.

"Adventure?" the kid says, like I knew he would. You and the pirate stay quiet, letting me handle this predicament you've put me in. I'm not going to lie to him.

"Yes. These two have something to show me, and they'd like for me to go with them to see it."

"What is it?" The natural curiosity of a kid. He's not making it easy, is he?

"Supposedly," I start, not really sure where I'm going with this. "I knew both of them, but I don't remember it. And whatever it is they're going to show me might help me remember."

It's not bad, not a terrible explanation and he nods slowly, turning it over in his mind as I bite my lip nervously. "Okay," he says simply, shrugging his shoulders. "Did you all go to high school together or something?"

The pirate laughs and you have a hint of a smile on your face. I shake my head. "No, we didn't. I barely got through most of high school, kid. I didn't even graduate."

"But you still had a good job," he points out and I want to hug him. So sweet. He doesn't even care that his mom was a dead beat. Instead of hugging him, though, I take a sip of my rum. "Well, did you meet them in prison then?"

Naturally I would be taking a sip of rum when he says something like that. It comes dribbling out of my mouth, and I'm lucky it didn't spew out all over the three of you. That one made me almost lose it. I shake my head again.

"What is this? Twenty questions? No, I didn't meet them in prison. They're just from the past," I say firmly and hoping he'll take the hint. He does, thankfully, realizing that it might be a sore subject, and he goes back to finishing his oranges.

"So," you say, looking at the kid and drawing a spoonful of stew to your lips and I'm frozen, watching it happen, mesmerized by your mouth. I'm thinking you want to change the subject, and I send thanks to you mentally. "I realize you two don't have many options here for food, but what is your favorite?"

His own spoon pausing on the way to his mouth, the kid takes a moment to think about it and then grins at the thought of food from a different time, food from a restaurant and a society that still functions, still has farmers and truck drivers and chefs and waiters and takeout.

"I really liked Italian food, when Mom would bring it home after work and school."

Dark eyebrows raise and your face lights up in the same way that the kid's does. It's almost uncanny. But not so much if you are who you say you are.

"Good to know, Hen- Bronx," you say, catching yourself with a smile and you focus again on your food, as if you plan on sticking around and cooking for him someday. Like nothing would make you happier.

"Tell me," the pirate says, and I have a feeling what he's going to ask. Both of you are getting tired of this 'no names' business. "Would you mind explaining again the reason for refusing to call everyone by their given names?"

"Given is subjective, I think. And besides that," I say slowly, gesturing meaninglessly and looking up at our building, not really wanting to make eye contact with you because you make me nervous and this rum isn't helping. I take another careful sip anyway. "It's the best way not to get attached, like finding a puppy on the street and giving it a name and then it gets run over and you're heartbroken."

The kid's only reaction to that is to nod his head slowly, staring off in the dusk at neighboring buildings. I know what he's thinking, and I wish that hadn't been brought up because I don't like to think about it either. It's not easy losing people you get close to. And keeping names out of the equation eliminates some of that intimacy. The pirate speaks up first, my eyes meet his and take in his smirk.

"That's endearing and quite sad, but we're not puppies, Swan."

"Damn it!" I say, slamming my fist on the table. I don't like to curse around the kid, but he's left me without much of a choice. He cringes, unable, apparently to keep from calling me anything but Swan and Love. Idiot.

At that, the kid excuses himself and tells us he's going upstairs to read. It's dark already, but we have lanterns and a good supply of fuel left for burning, as well as quite a few candles. We all tell him goodnight and I want to follow him, to make sure he's okay, after talking about sensitive stuff and adventures and a time before this apocalypse, but I know he just wants to be left alone for a while. It's what I would have wanted too.

As for you and me and the pirate, we continue to drink. He pours generous helpings and it goes down smooth every time. What doesn't go down smoothly is the conversation, because I take every opportunity I can get to shut down all suggestions of seeing whatever it is you two have to show me. This place you two claim will help me with my memory.

I'm not sure I want to see it. I'm not sure I want memories back, if you're in them and the pirate is in them and there has to be so much heartache judging by the constant look of despair on your face, and I'm not sure I want all of that on me. Wouldn't it be easier if you two just left and the kid and I could go back to our lives?

I say these things to the both of you and it's the rum talking, normally I would know when to shut up and that my words are hurting you and it's not your fault that all of this happened, the zombies and whatnot. But you look even more hurt by the time the words leave my mouth and I will them back in, wishing I could take them away, could snatch them back out of the air.

"Fine," you say, and I'm not sure if it's just dark and the moon is reflecting off your eyes, or if there are actually tears there, but I'm pretty sure I made you cry and now I feel awful and selfish. "We'll all just sleep off this alcohol and maybe you'll feel differently in the morning."

But all I can do is stare at you and I can feel the pirate staring at me, because the rum is acting like some sort of aphrodisiac for him, coursing through his veins and setting him on fire for me. Only problem is, he's not the one I'm burning for.

I stand up, swaying a bit and salute them, hoping for it to come off as comical when I know I just look like an asshole. "Right then," I say. "Goodnight to you both, and thank you for dinner."

Staggering up the stairs and to the apartment is more difficult than I thought it would be with my ankle, but I manage it somehow, and I lean back against the heavy door after it's locked and bolted, knowing that it's useless against you but I do it anyway. Habit, security blanket, that sort of thing. And I'm wondering what the hell happened down there and why I'm acting like such an ass.

I shake my head, pushing myself off the door and towards the kid's room to check on him. It's because I'm defensive right now, I know that, and I also know that I didn't mean to make you cry. But all I want is for my kid to be safe and happy and I don't know how much all of this and you and the pirate are helping.

The kid is already sound asleep in his bed.

Heading to my bedroom, I manage it fine without stumbling or falling down, even with the aching foot. Unconcerned with brushing my teeth or taking off my clothes, because it's been a long time since I've had hard liquor like that, and it's taken its toll on me. Not to mention the fact that I almost died today. Almost got bitten by a stealthy zombie and twisted my damned ankle. It's a little swollen now, and I need to keep it elevated so it doesn't get worse.

Come, sleep, my bed says and I listen, flopping onto the mattress and gingerly taking off my boots. The one with the hurt ankle, I take extra care not to twist it too hard in any one direction. And before I know it, I'm lying back on the pillows and shutting my eyes.

The dreams are different tonight, probably due to the alcohol. Images, swirling and conflicting and confusing, float around in my head and take me to far off places that don't make any sense. Places with fairytales, breaking our rule #540. There are huge, hulking green creatures, swinging clubs and spinning hats and wolves running around in the wilderness. And then I'm back in the town hall and that damned door is there again. I know it's locked. It's always locked, but this time something is different. This time I have a key.

I stare at it in my hand, trying to focus on it and keep it from swimming out of my vision, but all I can do is hold it out to the door, ready to open it, ready to see what's inside. But suddenly my hand stops and just before the key can make contact with the lock, I can hear it click open all by itself. Well, that was easy, I find myself thinking.

The next thing I know, my eyes are open and I'm shooting up straight in bed. But that's a mistake because my hangover has started and I haven't had any water. Pain rushes to my head and I feel unnaturally nauseated for a moment. It passes, but none too quickly. Now, what the hell woke me up? I think to myself, my mind halfway on the once-locked door and the key and all that weird shit before it and halfway on focusing on my bedroom. Glancing around the room, I don't see anything right away, but my hand goes instinctively under my pillow to my gun, squeezing the comforting metal in my hand.

It had to be something, some kind of noise, a bird hitting the window maybe? Not likely. Maybe it was the kid. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, aware of my ankle and the need to be gentle with it. It hurts like a bitch to put weight on it, but I grimace and do it anyway, knowing it won't get better quickly if I use it too much.

And as my head clears a little more, I'm able to reach for the pitcher of water I keep on my dresser and pour myself half a glass. It goes down smooth and cool and I can actually decipher my own thoughts now. Now that I can see straight, I have a pretty good idea about what probably woke me up. This will be two nights in a row, and I'm willing to bet it's you out in the living room, making noise on purpose probably and waiting for me to wake up.

Damn you.

Limping out into the living room, I squint my eyes and they fall immediately on a shadowy figure sitting in that same spot on the couch. Damn you to hell for waking me up like this. Again. I shouldn't even bother looking at the door, but I do anyway, just for the hell of it and see that it's still closed and locked. Oh well, I think resignedly and hobble around the couch, sitting heavily next you. You don't react at all to my presence, so I assume you've been expecting me. The gun grates against the coffee table as I set it down, and finally you look over at me in the dark, and I can just see the shining in your eyes.

I try to speak, but my throat is all clogged from sleep and from the rum clouding my entire head, so I have to clear my throat once to get anything out.

"Couldn't sleep again?" I ask, wanting to be angry, but finding myself more unsurprised and frustrated than anything. You shake your head, dark curls swishing around your face and I can smell you, leather and smoke and rosemary. You don't speak at first, but when I don't prod you for more information, for more details into the reasons you've invaded mine and the kid's personal space again, you jump into it without prompting.

"We're running out of time."

My hands go to my temples, pushing at them and hoping the feeling of slow implosion that I feel will go away soon. I should have brought that water in here.

"You've said that. How much time, exactly?"

"A week, at the most."

I see your hand at that trinket again, and up close, I can see that it's a sand dial. Ah, counting down the days. I'm guessing to the time when my 'parents' are killed. Based on what you told me last night about this Zelena person and her new curse.

"That's not much time to save the world, is it?" I'm halfway joking, and I know you won't think it's funny, but I say it anyway and smile despite myself. At least someone will laugh at my jokes. All you do is stare straight ahead and I can see, even in the darkness, the lines of worry all over your face.

"It's not much time, and I don't know what else to do to convince you. If you won't come see what we've got to show you, I don't think you'll believe us."

"You can't blame me, though," I say, running my hands over my legs and then using both of them to carefully lift up my hurt ankle to prop up on the coffee table. The glare you send at it makes me almost want to laugh. It's obvious you like order and good manners and things like that. But the damn thing hurts, so I don't care. "It's not easy to believe two strangers who waltz in to my life and tell me that the past year has been a lie."

"I realize that. But if you would just trust us enough to see what we have to show you, then everything will make more sense."

I want to say no, that it's just not going to happen, because I don't want things to make sense. I want to go back to the way things were and continue living our lives blissfully unaware that there are worse things than zombies out there. That's true here in this world, people can be worse than zombies, and maybe rattlesnakes and black widow spiders and grizzly bears, but to believe in all this talk of fairytales and true love and magic? It's . . . I don't know why I'm resisting it so much. It just doesn't seem real.

But then again, you two have proven yourselves trustworthy today, and although we're probably even because I helped you save the pirate's life the other day, I feel like I owe you both this favor. Damn it. Another reason not to keep people around.

"If you'll go with us, you'll understand. You're the only one who can help, the only one with enough magic to help."

"Magic," I mutter, gripping my head again. "Fuck. And that's not even the worst part. How are we supposed to just pick up our lives here and go with a pair of strangers? How is that a rational thing to do?"

"None of this is rational," you say and then you square your shoulders up to me, imploring me with your eyes once more. "You have to believe me. Please. We need your help."

You hesitate, your eyes closing for just a moment and it looks like it's painful for you to say it. "Emma, I need your help."

It feels like a blow to the gut, hearing you say my name and hearing you plead with me. I'm getting the feeling you're not the sort of person who begs for anything. Ever.

"Stop calling me that," I say, but this time it's for a different reason than the no names rule. "The way you say it . . . god. I don't even know you. How can I help you if I don't even know you?"

My words don't faze you. They don't even make you hesitate. "But you do! You just can't remember yet. You . . . know me better than anyone."

Your voice goes quiet at that last part, like you've been betrayed and kicked while you were down and it makes my heart clench and I don't know why.

Again, your dark hair moves around your face as you shake your head. "Just come with us. Just come with us, we'll show you what we need to and then you'll see."

"And then what? When I see whatever it is you're going to show me and I believe you, then what?"

You can sense that I'm not going to like what you've got to say next because you hesitate, I can feel it hanging in the room between us. But you go for it anyway. "You can bring Henry and we'll go to Storybrooke and to the portal, open it again and go there."

And there it is. The notion of jumping into another world is just beyond me. "I'm not going to go jumping into some . . . portal with two crazy people! That's crazy! How do I know you two aren't going to just murder us and probably eat us?"

"I don't know," You say slowly, ignoring my comment about the cannibalism. I haven't actually seen that happen, besides the zombies of course. But you never know. "But I do know that your family is waiting for you there. Your parents. There's a life waiting for you there, and as hard as it is for me to say this and drag you back there, that life might be better than this one."

My breath falls out in a harsh scoff. "In a different world? I don't believe it. Is there electricity?"

You shake your head and look around with a shrug. "No, but electricity is gone from this world as well."

"It can come back. And we have some, a little solar power."

"And what about Henry? He has no friends. All he sees here is death and destruction."

You've hit the goddamned nail on the head. My second biggest fear, besides me dying and leaving him alone to fend for himself is that he isn't happy. He really doesn't have anyone, no one his own age and I'm so worried about him. You've caught on to that, and now you're exploiting it.

"He has me." But I know deep down that it isn't enough, and I'm grasping at straws, trying to come up with a reason good enough to hold on to this world, to this life that we've built.

"Is this the life you want for him?"

And just like that. You've got me. You're right and I'm wrong and I hate it when that happens. But with you it feels even more agitating than usual. I don't say anything, so you go on.

"And these . . ." You continue, gesturing to the window with your hands. "Zombies, what about them? They've taken over."

I give you a pointed stare. Normally you call them the 'undead.' They are more than that, though. "You said they were over there too."

"They are," you concede, "But they're not like this. They don't try to eat people, and they don't infect you. There are dangers of course, don't get me wrong. But, we need your help. And I'm not one to ask for help often. So please."

"But what am I supposed to do?" I manage to get out, tears filling my eyes because I know I'm losing this battle. "Henry and I have a good thing here, damn the crazy dreams and the zombies and the lack of very much food. We've survived for a year. Our apartment is safe."

A condescending laugh comes from your lips, and I know what you're thinking. You say it before I can stop you.

"It's not as safe as you'd like to think, dear." And talk about condescending. Before, when you said my name, it was one thing. And it felt familiar and strange and hard to explain. But when you call me 'dear', it feels like a roaring fire in my chest, like anger and protest and something like desire.

"Damn it," I protest, knowing I sound childish. "You have a magician's tricks. That's not fair."

"It's magic, Emma. Real magic."

"Whatever," I say because I feel petulant now and hurt that you've broken down every barrier I've set up in front of you. The first names, to hell with that you've demonstrated and called me Emma whenever you could. The locked front door. It's no problem for you and your so-called weak magic. What other walls are you going to kick down to get me to go along with you?

"Anyway, we're happy here. We were happy here until you two showed up and started screwing with my mind, started telling me I'm someone else and all these memories aren't real. This is real. These fucking zombies are real, and lady, whatever you have going on that you need help with, I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to figure it out by yourself. Because Henry is everything to me and I can't put him in any more danger."

Your face crumples suddenly and your eyes well up with tears, because it's the first time I've said his name and it makes me want to cry too. And I don't mean all of what I've just said, but I lashed out and I've hurt you by saying it. Or is it something else? Is there some other reason you're crying? You squeeze your eyes tight together and the tears fall out, running down your face.

"I know he is, Emma. I know."

I don't know how to comfort, how to make someone stop crying. It's not something I'm good at, consoling people. Probably because I'd never had much affection and consoling as a child. But with you, touch seems to help. It seems to heal. So I reach out, despite my aversion to any physical contact with mostly everybody, except the kid. And I run my hand gently along your arm, hoping to make you feel at least a little better, although, I'm still not exactly sure why you're crying and I don't know how to ask.

What it feels like to me is that you and I have history. What kind of history is the question and I would like to know the answer. Because maybe it's not just for your son that you've come back to try and save from the zombies. Maybe I play a part in it for you too.

"What's our connection, then? You cast this curse . . . and you're concerned about my parents for some reason, even though you say you cursed them originally in that world, but why would you want to bring us back there? How are you and I connected?"

"It's . . . complicated," you say and just as you do, quiet, socked footsteps shuffle from around the corner, alerting my attention beyond your head. You follow my gaze and turn around, your expression is that melting one again when you see him.

The kid comes out of his room then, rubbing his eyes and sleepy, and you're so strange around him, watching him with more tears welling up in your eyes, again. But this time you manage to hold yourself together. And I think you really might be telling the truth about being his mother. Either that or you're one hell of an actress. That doesn't mean it makes sense, because I have memories of being with him for his entire young life.

The kid sleepily considers you for a moment, curiously, and then he looks to me, a question written all over his face.

I almost stand up and go to him, but he's a teenager now and you're here, so he probably wouldn't like that.

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, but I know why he's really up.

"I heard voices."

"Sorry for waking you," You say softly after a pause where I'm not sure what to say and my heart clenches at your tone.

"That's okay," he says, and it's typical of him, perfectly mannered and kind. No idea where he got that from. I'm the opposite. Maybe he learned it at school. Or maybe, if you're telling the truth, maybe he got it from you. He scratches his head, but his eyes are looking more alert now.

"Did you like the book?" you ask and he nods. His eyes light up, and he says thank you in his quiet, polite way. Looking back and forth from me to you, he gives us both a curious look, probably wondering what all the raised voices were about.

"Are you talking about going on the adventure?"

I hesitate, but only for a moment, because I haven't lied to him flat out and I don't plan on doing so.

'Yes, we are," I say, looking him in the eye. He nods, sits down next to me and I wrap an arm around him protectively, hoping he won't shrug me off. He doesn't. I catch sight of your face and its getting close to crumbling again.

"I'll let you get back to bed," you say, looking down at your hands and drawing in a calming breath, thinking probably that this is a conversation that I want to have with him alone. "But may I ask for one more thing?"

I nod, and I can feel the kid lean into me, still sleepy but not so much that he wants to miss whatever it is we're discussing, especially if it has to do with adventure.

"Please go with us tomorrow, just for one look."

I hesitate. I've already let you people into our home, well, sort of. One of you broke in. Two times now, you infuriating woman. And yet neither you nor the pirate has been aggressive. There's still time though.

"It was Hoo- uh . . Jolly Roger's idea, but it's a good one I think, and it may be our last one." Your breath inhales in deeply again, steeling yourself for my refusal, probably. "Go with us to the apartment tomorrow. It can be like another run for supplies. And maybe it will help you remember."

My expression is skeptical, I'm sure. But I'm going to do it, even if I'm about to act reluctant. "Where is this apartment?"

"It's not too far. He knows where it is. And if it doesn't help, then I promise we'll go and leave you alone."

I hesitate again, not because I don't want to see this place, but because the thought of you leaving feels wrong. I don't even know you and it feels like that's not the way things are supposed to be. Not that I'm a believer in the way things are supposed to be.

"Please. It will be the last thing I ask."

All I want is to be happy again. I want these zombies to disappear, for everything to go back to the way it was, for Henry to be safe and normal and grow up like a regular kid, not some zombie killing maniac child. So if this is what it's going to take to get rid of either the zombies or you and the one-handed guy once and for all, whether it feels right or not, then so be it. Besides, it can't hurt to scope out a few more buildings. One nod is all you need and relief washes over your features. Henry doesn't miss it.

"Can I come this time?" His voice is too earnest. He wants so badly to help, to be involved and to do as much protecting as I do, but he's so young and I'm so hesitant.

"Please, mom?"

He doesn't normally call me that, but I guess you and the stupid Jones guy have broken down our walls. I glance over at you and you're staring at him with that crumbly expression again and I don't know what to do. The kid's a pretty good shot with a crossbow, and I don't have enough reasons to tell him no. Besides the fact that he could be bitten or kidnapped or killed or god knows what else. But I've told him no too many times. Maybe this won't come back to bite me in the ass. Maybe.

"Okay," I say, reluctantly. His face lights up. "Really?"

"Yes, really. But you know the rules."

We're blood. He's my kid. So I know exactly when he's about to roll his eyes because that's exactly when I would've rolled mine. I elbow him sharply in the ribs just as the eyes start to go up.

"Ouch!" he cries under his breath, too high pitched and then clears his throat. His voice is just starting to get squeaky and just the tiniest bit deep. He's growing up and there's nothing I can do to keep him small. I miss his tiny hands and tiny toes and how they fit so perfectly into my hands. "Okay, okay. Yes, I know the rules. Stick to you like white on rice. Got it."

"Rule number 17?"

"Don't be a hero," the kid answers dutifully and I squeeze him around the shoulders. He's got this strange sense of gallantry and I had to make Rule 17 to keep him from doing crazy things to save me if I ever get into a little trouble. But not all the rules are so serious. "And rule number 10?"

"Do you have your exit buddy?"

That's probably my favorite one, next to the fairytale one because it involves a movie he used to love and we probably watched it four times in theaters when it first came out. Although it was awkward explaining to six year old Henry why he didn't have a father like Marlin to come search the oceans for him when he got lost. All I could think of to tell him was that I would comb and hunt through every jellyfish field and school of fish in the entire world to find him if he ever got lost. Thank god he accepted that, though, because he had so many questions and he's too damn smart for his age. Still is. Questions about his father come sparingly. Like on Father's day.

He's bouncing up and down with excitement. "Oh! We can call it Operation Amnesia and we'll figure out exactly what you forgot."

"Operation Amnesia, huh?" I say and glance over at a slight movement from where you are, catching the look on your face and god damnit, how can your expression get even more distraught? You like you're about to break in half.

"Right, let's go back to bed then."

He stands up, lumbers off with his recently gangling arms and legs flailing around the couch and back into his room.

I stare at you, watching you watch him, like you can't get enough of seeing him. Like you're dying of thirst and he's the only water for miles. It's strange. That's how I feel about him all the time. Like he's the only reason worth going through this hell.

You finally look back at me and I give you the smallest of my smiles, and to my surprise, you return it.

"I'll see you in the morning," you say, and your voice is hoarse, like you're struggling again to keep the tears at bay. I nod and stand up with you, walking, limping, you out to the door. And although I feel bad for not inviting you to stay on the couch, I still don't know you, and still don't trust you well enough not to murder both me and my son. But somehow I know deep down that that particular fate is not in our immediate future, at least not by your hand.

"Goodnight," I say and you walk through my door without another word, but I still see the hand that comes up to swipe the single tear running down your face.

I limp in to check on the kid and see him with a kerosene lantern on his bedside table, lighting up his face as he looks intently at a book. He left dinner early and came up here by himself while the three adults were downstairs drinking. Probably not a good example for the kid, but I needed it. Or wanted it. Same thing pretty much. Before I saw you out in the living room, he was soundly sleeping, and then we woke him up with our loud voices. And now that I've agreed for some reason to let him go with us tomorrow, I'm sure he's giddy as hell and ready to go. He knows better than anyone that reading before bed can make a person sleepy. So now he's wide awake again under the soft light and reading.

And I'm guessing that he's been occupying himself with the book you gave him earlier. I'd forgotten about it, especially after the rum, and it was so thoughtful of you to get it for him. But as I move closer, I can clearly see that this book is not the small paperback I saw him pick up earlier. Hatchet is a familiar book to me, the cover is one I remember, and the book the kid holds in his lap is not that book. This book is big and heavy and leather-bound. It looks old and soft and it has pictures on the pages.

"What do you have there?" I ask softly, not wanting to startle him, but he heard me come in and he simply looks up, smiling at me and patting the bed next him.

"It's a book I found in the living room earlier."

That's strange. I've never seen a book like this in our apartment, and believe me, I've scoured over every inch of this place making sure there are no weaknesses.

"Really? What's it about?" I ask and my eyes fall on the other book, Hatchet, lying forgotten and dog-eared next to the lamp.

"Fairytales," he says absently as he flips the page, completely absorbed in what he's reading.

"Fairytales?" I lean closer, read over his shoulder and he lets me, scooting the book halfway onto my lap. And it's the strangest thing I notice when he speaks next, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

"Yeah, I found it on the couch this morning after breakfast and I've been reading it all day while you were gone."

This book, these pictures as he flips through them, these almost realistic pictures are so damn familiar. They're like you, like I've met you before, like I've seen all of this in a movie once a long time ago. And then it hits me.

This is the stuff from my dreams.

"Holy shit," I whisper and don't even realize that the words have left my mouth.

"What?" the kid looks sharply up at me, thinking I've hurt myself again probably. But I can't answer. No, all I can do is stare straight ahead as flashbacks of my stupid recurring dreams fly through my mind. I grab the book from him, maybe a little too roughly, and start flipping through the pages, incredulous at the images I'm seeing. That town. The clock tower and the town hall and the door. No way. But the rest of the book is filled with fairytale images and all the typical stuff, and it just has to be a coincidence.

I slam the book shut, and my mouth is dry.

"You said you found this book in here?"

He nods, eyeing me cautiously, and I'm aware that he thinks I'm acting weird, but I can't help it. This is weird. And I'm still too drunk to be thinking about these things. I think the kid can smell it and sense it on me, too, because he leans away just a little.

"It's really a pretty good book . . ." he starts, but I hold my hand up, not wanting to hear anything else because my mind can't take any more. I have an idea where this fairytale book might have come from, seeing as you're the only one beside the kid and myself who have been in this apartment, but why you would leave it for him is beyond me. And why you have it is beyond me. And why it looks so much like my damned dream and sounds so much like what you've been telling me is completely and utterly beyond me.

So I stand up, wincing at my ankle and hand the book back to him without explaining myself. I just can't right now. It's gotta be the alcohol playing tricks on me. Stumbling back to my room, I fall on the bed for a second time that night and wrap my hand, like a child holding their blanket, around the gun hidden beneath my pillow. Too damn weird, I think to myself just before I fall back to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

_Enchanted Forest – A week later._

It seems that without anyone to hunt after, terrorize or victimize, castle living for Regina is a bland thing. A hobby might be something worth taking up, or perhaps she could help out in the kitchens with Granny. That thought makes her want to laugh. Regina is probably the absolute last person Granny wants to help out in the kitchens, exemplary lasagna skills or not.

Anyway, her skills and magic are probably better put to use for the good of the villagers anyway. These people need a real leader, not sniveling Snow and Charming, but someone who actually knows about the ins and outs of running a place. And after what happened last week, first with Zelena in this castle, and then Neal and Belle sneaking off to Rumple's castle, (that in itself was quite the story), true leadership has gone by the wayside.

When Belle had returned with a limping and weak Neal, the man was scratched up and still bleeding, claw marks similar to the scars on her own arm. Flying monkeys, she had readily deduced, and Neal confirmed it. And the story they told about the library and Rumple's castle not actually being in ruins and finding the vault and raising Rumple from the dead, even when they knew Zelena had pushed them to do it, made Regina hold her head in her hands. How stupid could they really be?

And now Zelena has control of the Dark One, after Rumple gave that up to save Neal's life. But that wasn't even the end of it. As Belle and Neal finished recounting the story, sounds of thumping and moaning hit their ears. Something was outside the castle doors, and whatever it was, did not sound good.

"Oh yeah," Neal had said, eyes rolling back in his head. "Zelena sent a whole army of the undead after us. They're everywhere."

And with that, he had passed out in Belle's arms, leaving the rest of the castle to deal with the onslaught of undead.

* * *

Regina lounges on what was once her throne off to the side of the Great Hall. Instead of a single throne at the front of the room, however, newly instated pro tem rulers Snow and Charming have opted for a counsel-type fashion of governing their 'kingdom'.

That's the first of two things Regina has to focus on now, the things that will keep her mind off of what she's lost.

With no hope in the near future to return to Storybrooke, or the Land Without Magic at all, the new King and Queen, and Regina rolls her eyes inwardly at those names, thought it best to set up a new form of government, with laws and self-governance and a constitution and a military and a fire department and all that wonderful goodness.

And the other thing she has to focus on is her newly-discovered half-sister. Regina wants mainly to figure out a way to stop Zelena from destroying this world, if they are to stay here in it.

And if Regina is not to put herself to sleep because of interfering third parties, then she has resigned herself to finding the best way to help her sister out of a bad situation, to stop these undead from terrorizing everyone, as seemingly harmless as they may be, and to find a peaceable way to help Zelena find her love, seeing as how it is partially Regina's fault that the woman was taken in the first place.

Regina sighs, resting her chin in her hand, eyes drifting back and forth to the people currently in court, discussing how best to transport water from the recently uncovered wells to the village, the newly rebuilt village. Well, if she's honest, and if these people are honest, at the moment, it consists of only several dozen tents and campfires. Many people are still using the castle as their residence, for fear of the flying monkeys that struck them at the beginning, and now the undead that have started mindlessly knocking themselves against the walls.

"I'm sorry Mr. Spencer . . ." Snow starts, and Regina glances up from her reverie, watching with mild interest the outrage that dances across the man's face. His companion looks equally angered. Ah, the complexities of having two separate personalities and sets of memories.

"It's King George. Or it should be! I don't appreciate that I've lost my entire kingdom simply because some Evil Queen decides to demote me in another world."

Regina gives him a sneer.

"George, listen," Snow says patiently. "Your castle was destroyed, just like ours, along with everyone else's dwellings. So we have to build from scratch."

Although, Regina thinks, and knows that Snow is withholding information from these two, it seems that the castles weren't actually destroyed, simply knocked around a bit as if bombs had gone off nearby. But she holds her tongue, knowing that Snow and Charming must have a plan to retake their castle if it is indeed in good enough shape for it. And that means not telling the former King George about it, because that is the same castle he speaks of.

"Right," Charming says. "So you can either stick around, do your duty today on scouting and reconnaissance, participate in the elections, hell, run if you want to. Or you can find your own way elsewhere."

George gives the most menacing glare he can manage, while Dr. Whale stands next to him in silence.

"What about you, Whale? What will you do?"

He glances down, his feeble attempt at humility Regina guesses. "I'd like better facilities than this, my own laboratories and research halls."

Snow frowns. "You know we don't have anything like that."

"You could," Whale nods to Regina. "She has magic. She could magic everything we ever wanted."

Regina snorts through her nose. "Yes, yes, just hand over everything to anyone who asks. Now what kind of lesson in hard work would that be teaching you?"

Whale's face contorts in rage. "We are not here to be taught by you, Regina. We are here because your curse took everything away in the first place!"

"Technically Rumpelstiltskin's curse, but I enacted it, yes. And picked the nice town, gave you all jobs and cars and indoor plumbing, and decent lives for the most part," she spares a halfway-apologetic glance towards Snow and Charming and Belle. "What you should be mad about is having to come back here at all."

With that, George and Whale storm out, realizing that Regina is nowhere close to giving them what they want, and Regina is all too happy to see them go.

Court has become quite the nuisance, she realizes, now that the miniscule problems of Storybrooke, Maine have turned into monstrous problems with ogres and human waste and the undead and medieval warfare.

"Where do you suppose Hook has run off to?" Snow asks, looking around and for the first time, Regina notices he's gone. Idiot pirate, she thinks. It's been nice not having him around, but when she thinks about it, it is strange that he wouldn't be arm in arm with Neal, trying to figure out a way to get back to Emma.

"Any ideas, Regina?" Charming asks, pulling her from her thoughts. She jerks upright, having slumped in a very unladylike and unqueen-like manner in her chair, lost in her own thoughts.

"About?"

"Hook. Where he might be," Charming says with a frown.

"No. No idea. Maybe he's somewhere getting his other hand chopped off."

Double frowns meet her partially evil grin, and it falls from her face. Not quite as funny as I thought it would be, she thinks glumly.

"What do you think, Neal?" Snow asks, and the man pulls his head up from his hands. Looks like me, sitting over there alone and melancholy, Regina thinks sullenly.

"If he's the same Hook I've always known, then he'll be out searching for his ship somewhere."

"All of our belongings were supposed to come back with us, though, weren't they?" Charming directs his question at Regina again, seeing as she's the resident curse caster in the place.

"Yes, but a ship, obviously, would be put down in some form of water."

"There's your answer, then," Neal says, lowering his head back to his hands. If it wasn't high noon at the moment, Regina would expect him to have his face buried in a flagon of strong wine. After being sent away from Zelena's castle, the man has been restless, pacing back and forth all night, asking anyone and everyone for help and advice as to how to get his father back.

But after hearing his and Belle's story, about how Zelena tricked them into trading Neal's life for the Dark One's resurrection, Regina can't really blame him. It was a clever trick, she has to admit that, but it was low. And now that her sister has awakened the undead using the hearts that both Regina and Cora took in their lifetimes, there hasn't been time to put on a rescue of any sort for Rumple. Not that it would help, seeing as Zelena now has control of the Dark One.

Regina stands up, claiming to need a nap, while the rest of the court continues chatting about their next move, reinforcements against the undead and so forth. Snow spares her a second glance, however, fully aware that she might go up and try to put herself to sleep again.

But when Regina's eyes meet the younger brunette's, she knows they are filled with truth and that she has no intention of hurting herself any further. People need her help, and for better or worse, she'll stick around long enough to make sure they stay alive. Because whether she likes it or not, George was right about all of this being her fault. These people would have their possessions and homes if she hadn't cursed them to the Land Without Magic in the first place.

Up in her chambers, Regina moves across the luxurious rugs to her vanity, seating herself on and staring at her reflection. Tired eyes, hidden behind too much stark makeup and a severe hairstyle. Dark gowns and diving cleavage. She looks good, that much she's aware of. But for whom?

In the past, her looks would play an integral part in her schemes for power or manipulation, where both men and sometimes women would willingly fall into her bed. Sex was, is, and always will be a great form of negotiation, and especially for someone with power.

But now, she has minimal desire to sleep with anyone, much less use her lures to ensnare powerful people into her web. Like a black widow, she thinks. A husband murderer. After Leopold, it's a wonder people didn't call her that as well as Evil. Not that most people actually knew it was her.

Leopold, Regina thinks darkly to herself. That damned bastard got what he deserved, the things he did to her. And thoughts of his death resurface memories of what happened, of the man who carried out the murder, of Sidney Glass, her genie, her man in the mirror.

If everyone was returned to the Enchanted Forest, then what must have happened to Sidney Glass?

"Slave in the magic mirror, come from farthest space, through wind and darkness I summon thee. Speak! Let me see thy face," she tries out in a voice intended to be firm, but it comes out small and hesitant because those words haven't left her lips in over thirty years, and they sound foreign, strange, like they belong in a book and not in her mouth.

Instantly, the shadowy silhouette and outlined face of the genie appears in her mirror, his dark eyes darting back and forth from Regina to the room behind her.

"Sidney," she says with mild surprise.

"Your majesty," Sidney says, his head inclining ever so slightly.

"I didn't realize you would still be . . ." She trails off, because she should have realized. Where else would he be?

"Yes, of course. No one thinks to think about the cursed genie, stuck for eternity again, back in this mirrorworld, forever destined to gaze upon your face."

She expects to hear malice in his voice, but is surprised that there is none. Strange that his life, like many others, was changed for the worse when they first met.

"You're not angry with me?"

"I am not angry, no. My time spent in the mental ward of the hospital was an exception. I am angry about that. But you freed me from my prison by cursing us all to the Land Without Magic. And I lived outside that prison for almost three decades. Granted, most of that time, I wasn't aware of who I was, but all the same."

"Interesting way of thinking about it," Regina muses, staring down at her nails. She never thought she'd feel so guilty for all of it, or remorseful. But still, it all brought her to her son, and for that, she would not have regrets.

"May I assist you with something, my Queen?"

At least someone still has respect for her rightful title. Regina tilts her head at the mirror.

"Actually yes. I'm willing to bet my sister, Zelena, knows nothing of this connection I have with all mirrors and glass in this world. Let's find out, shall we, if she has uncovered any of Rumple's mirrors."

And after a moment, when the connection has been made and Sidney has disappeared back into the mirror, Regina gets a clear glimpse into Rumple's castle. The first place she can see is his Great Hall and although it seems to be dusted and straightened up, in far better shape than her castle when she first entered it from a thirty year absence, it is also completely empty.

It looks to be in much better condition than what Neal and Belle described, and that must be attributed to the Dark One's power.

Obviously Zelena has been here, but where she is now, Regina can't tell. Alas, Regina thinks, spying into an empty castle is no fun at all. She takes hold of her hand mirror and makes her way back downstairs, ready to share the news that she has a new insight into what the Witch might be planning.

* * *

**Zelena turns away from the looking glass after Regina made her exit from the rest of the group, trudging up the stairs, unaware and uncaring of what her sister might be up to in her own chambers. As long as the woman doesn't try another permanent sleeping spell, then all will be well. She has seen all she needed to through her looking glass in Regina's Great Hall, the unrest and revolt already taking place within the Charmings' ranks. **

**Now is the time to split them all apart, she decides, after having seen the fighting between the Charmings and the newcomers, mainly the ones who want some semblance of power. All it takes is a little bit of chaos, just a little unrest, and everything falls apart. It's too easy, really, Zelena thinks to herself, especially after the whole bunch of them received a taste for the undead. It was a spell she came across in her Grimerie well before the Storybrooke people came back, a way to reanimate the dead, but one would need their hearts to control them. **

**Not a problem, Zelena decided and the whole plan was made that much simpler after discovering Regina and Cora's hefty collection of hearts down in the crypt. All those poor pitiful people, heartless and controlled by those two power hungry witches.**

**These undead, however, are not as vicious as she might have liked, but they are certainly difficult to kill again, simply rising and continuing doggedly in their mission, regardless of their injuries. They would do for now, to keep the newcomers busy anyway. **

**And as for the present task, Zelena buttons up her riding cloak, adjusts her hair in the mirror and takes hold of her sturdy broomstick. Now is the time to split the whole group apart, to divide and conquer them and figure out each and every one of their weaknesses. All it will take is a little manipulation. **

**Only fifteen tik toks later, Zelena spots them as she soars above the trees, two men on horseback, scouting at the very edges of Regina's territory. As she descends through the sparse branches and lands silently on a branch, Zelena can hear their arguing voices carrying easily through the still afternoon air. **

**"I was a king once. And now look at me. Doing the bidding of two morons and an evil bitch."**

**"Well, I was a doctor, a scientist close to discovering greatness and I'm in the same boat as you now." **

**Obviously these two want power and want nothing more than to be on the winning side. And now is the perfect time to strike, to give them both what they want. For the moment. **

**Zelena descends to the ground, making little to no noise as she stands behind the mounted men. **

**"Hello, boys," Zelena says and grins widely at the way they jump in surprise, their horses giving a start and almost throwing them both to the snow covered ground. **

**Recovering quickly, both men draw their weapons. The older man, George, the former king, brings forth a bow and notches an arrow to it as if he hadn't been in a world sans archery for almost thirty years. His companion, the younger doctor Whale, draws a short sword, ready to hack her to pieces, she guesses. **

**"The Wicked Witch!" Whale yells and kicks his horse forward, charging her, ready to take her down. Who knows what he's thinking, Zelena sighs to herself as she sidesteps him easily, ducking away from his swinging weapon, perhaps that he'll be a hero and receive everything he desires if only he brings back the witch's head. Alas, the Witch is not currently prepared to lose her head, and his sword appears instantly in her hand. **

**Almost comically, Whale makes an about-face after missing her and swings the hand that should contain the sword, looking up at it when it feels empty and staring in confusion at it. Zelena cackles and out of her peripheral vision to the right, she spots the arrow headed straight for her heart, but her hand is faster. She bats it aside easily, and as it falls to the ground with a puff of green smoke, it vanishes. **

**"Now that nonsense is out of the way, I have a proposition for the both of you," Zelena says, working to make her breath steady. That little bit of magic was enough to drain her energy. Both of the men watch her warily, fully realizing now that they stand no chance against her. **

**"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation as you passed me by a few moments ago. And in that conversation, I gathered that the two of you are unhappy with your current roles in society."**

"**Why should we trust you. Why should we speak to you?" Whale says, squinting his eyes. **

**Zelena shrugs. "It's either me or those fools you're currently running around for."**

**"That's true," George says slowly, regarding her carefully, and Zelena can see that he's been itching to tell this to someone else other than the equally whiny doctor. "We've both lost our titles since returning to this land, and we feel that they should be returned to us." **

**"Ah, yes," Zelena nods solemnly. "I understand what it's like to be denied something you rightfully deserve. Well, what do you two say to a nice reprieve from this scouting mission. Say, some of Rumpelstiltskin's finest ages wines sound lovely right about now, don't they? And while we're there, I'll let you in on my plan. That is," she pauses for dramatic effect. "If you two are interested in reclaiming what is yours?"**

**"We heard you have the Dark One's power?" Whale asks with a speculative, curious expression. Zelena nods, pulling forth the dagger from her cloak and showing it to the two men. It gleams dangerously with Rumpelstiltskin's name in the afternoon sunlight. **

**A shared glance between them is all the agreement they seem to need. George nods curtly towards the Witch, and the two of them urge their horses towards her as she leads the way back to Rumpelstiltskin's castle. **


	13. Chapter 13

**April 3, 2013**

The coffee, like I thought it would be, is delicious. Smooth and strong and joltingly caffeinated, it's just what I needed. And it looks like you and pirate are enjoying it just as much. God, it's been too long.

And soon enough, we're all getting ready for the day's expedition: Operation Amnesia is what we're calling it. I'm nervous as hell for the kid to be out there with us, but it's going to be okay. It's going to be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen.

I hope.

During breakfast, there's something different about you. Something more hopeful I suppose. You're nervous still, certainly, still toying with that golden trinket around your neck with the time supposedly running out of it. But you're definitely in a better mood than you were last night. And strangely enough, you're able to convey that feeling to me. It happens all so nonchalantly.

I'm sitting with my ankle propped up on the table, a bit hungover from the night before so already I'm not feeling so great. I'm rubbing at the ankle, trying to get the last bits of swelling to go down, and you walk by me, as casual as you please, and lay a brief hand on the ankle. It happens so fast, I don't even have time to react. But you squeeze, tightly, and holy shit that hurts!

After a glow that lasts a second, you release my ankle and walk back into the building to gather up your things for the day. No big deal.

My ankle throbs for a moment as I stare at it, and then suddenly the swelling is completely gone and it no longer hurts. My eyes bug out. I wiggle the foot around in its socket, testing it for soreness, and nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You've healed me.

I look around, wondering if anyone else saw this, but Henry's nose is stuck in that damned story book and the pirate is sharpening his sword. No one saw it. So I don't know what else to do but pretend like it was no big deal. I suppose I'll thank you later for it, and just be glad I don't have to deal with a hurting ankle on this run.

When breakfast is finished up, we gather up all of our needed supplies. And off we go, with me moving right along, not slowing us down with my pain. The trek to the apartment is longer than I thought it would be. The pirate said it wasn't far, but it turns out it's quite a few blocks away. It takes us a good thirty minutes to make it across the park and up 5th avenue.

You and the pirate tell me we're headed to Wooster Street, way downtown, and I know it's going to take a while on foot, but we don't have much choice. The streets are still pretty crowded with zombies and crashed cars and all kinds of debris people hurled from high windows, hoping to have some effect on the madness below. It's still smelly, I note, catching a whiff of a particularly pungent dead person beneath an upturned car. Most of the dead around our neighborhood I dragged several blocks away and burned in a pile in the middle of the street.

Thinking of that, absurdly, takes me back to my childhood, watching Monty Python and all those people in the middle ages, calling out 'bring out your dead' and people would just pile the bodies on, no big deal. Some of them weren't even dead yet. But this isn't Monty Python. This is real, and the smell is as real as it gets.

It wasn't easy, setting fire to former people, no. It was pretty hard, actually. Plus, they didn't catch fire very well, but I managed to scrounge up some fryer oil from a nearby fast food joint. That kept 'em burning pretty good. But I had to high-tail it out of there when the flames really picked up because light attracts more walkers, and it definitely attracts regular, alive people. And those regular, alive people are usually the worst kinds.

They want to steal your food and your guns and your water and usually if they're guys, they haven't had sex in a while and that's not a good combination either, for a single mother and a young son. So I've had to really keep my distance from people. For the most part.

My attention is whipped back to the present when I poke my head briefly around a corner, just to check out the next street and to see how thick the walkers are. And they're pretty thick. Just recently they've started congregating together, all stumbling around in packs I've noticed, sort of like the old used up robot companions in iRobot. They're almost human, so they have some human qualities. Seeking out the company of their kind.

Strange. But that's not the weirdest thing.

The weirdest part is that . . . I know this is going to sound nuts, but I think they can communicate with each other. Somehow, their moans are starting to seem like a language. A primitive one, no doubt, but still, I'm really starting to think that they're helping each other try to catch their prey. Because otherwise, how could they be winning against humans with firepower and planes and functioning brains?

And, if I'm not mistaken, I really think they're starting to move a little faster. They shouldn't be, I know that. I've seen the movies and I know that they're dead, and they're decaying, and they should just rot away at some point. But I don't think that's happened. They're just sort of, stuck where they are, dead and alive all at once, and hungry for our flesh.

Anyway, the 40 block trip takes forever, most of the morning actually, and I can see the sun right smack in the middle of the sky through the buildings of downtown. But for the most part, we haven't encountered anything terribly out of the ordinary, staying mostly to alleys and sides of buildings and trying to stay quiet. The kid does great, sticking to my side like glue, just like he said he would. And he doesn't say a word the entire time, just nudges my shoulder when he spots a crowd of walkers so that we can go another way to avoid them.

When we finally get to the address, I stare up at the building while the kid looks around, clutching that crossbow in his hands like there's no tomorrow. I know he's got to be nervous, being this far from the apartment, but he would never say so. I can see it in his eyes, just a little bit of fear pushed backwards by months and months of pent up longing for adventure. Ever since our incident with our friends-turned-zombie, I've tried to keep him sheltered and inside as much as possible. I know, I know, probably not the best thing for a growing teenager, but what could I do? He's all I have and I don't know what I'd do if something happened to him.

"Shall we go up?" the pirate says, tired of standing there, huddled next to the steps and out of sight. I look around one more time, poking my head around the corner to check out the fire escapes, just to make sure I've calculated every available route in case something goes wrong. Then I nod.

"Yeah. Let's go."

But just as I step forward, the pirate holds up his wooden hand, halting my progress, leans in close to me so that you and the kid can't hear, and then he fixes his eyes on the kid.

"It might not be a good idea for the boy to go in there."

"Why the hell not?"

His eyes give him away. They look like the kid's for a moment, tinged with fear and just a little bit of hesitation.

"You'll see. Shall I keep him down here?"

"In the hall," I say, agreeing because there are probably walkers up there. But I don't trust Jolly, and it's possible that he'll try to kidnap the kid, try to take him away from me while I'm looking at whatever it is you're going to show me. And it's this same crazy scenario I can see in my mind, where you both have this all planned out, where you've been stalking me and that's how you know everything about me. And then you're going to distract me while we're looking at whatever and the pirate is going to take my kid.

So, if it's not a good idea to have the kid in the apartment, I at least want him near me out in the hall.

Smells of rotting corpses and food and human waste and god knows what else hits all four of us full force as we make our way through the half-lit hallways and towards the stairs. Smoky light filters in through the windows at the ends of the halls. This is how most buildings smell when I enter them. People turned on each other, hoarding their food and supplies, and then when they ran out, they had to venture outside. And venturing outside is dangerous, especially with no weapons and no experience in hand to hand combat.

Granted, at the beginning, the walkers were easier to get away from, but they multiplied quickly, and things got worse because of the ungodly amount of people in this city. Most of them evacuated of course, but those that didn't haven't fared well, as far as I can tell.

We climb the stairs, four stories to the middle of the building and as we walk down the hall slowly, listening to every little creak and groan of the floor, I try not to look at the doors. I don't want to think about what could be inside them. Dead people usually wait behind closed doors. At least that was the case with my building. It took a while for the smell to go away after I cleared them out.

It's quiet in this building. Almost too quiet, I can't help thinking, as we slow to a stop outside 407. The door is shut, and I have a feeling it's locked too. Why wouldn't it be? And the feeling that I'm not going to like whatever is inside this apartment, I can't seem to shake.

"Okay," I say, turning to look at you and the kid and the pirate. "Anything I need to prepare for before I open this door?"

Your expression is unreadable, and what the pirate is thinking, god only knows. He keeps looking at me like the sun shines out of my ass, and I wish he'd stop. The kid steps willingly to the side when the pirate pulls him a few feet down the hall, giving me and you space. I send him what I hope is a reassuring look, although I feel far from assured at this point.

Reaching out for the door handle, you turn it once and it sticks. Locked.

I don't waste any time because my bad feeling is only getting worse. Bending down to one knee, I pull out two tools from a small leather pouch and set to work on picking the lock. It's an easy one and doesn't take long before the lock clicks and the knob turns. The door swings open with a gentle push and you follow me into the room.

Afternoon light shines through the window straight ahead, and because they're all closed and the air conditioning no longer works, it's stifling inside. But the smell isn't bad. Not like in the other places. So far so good. It's bizarrely furnished, a typically ratty couch and scuffed coffee table to the right, tiny kitchen to the left with barely any room for a counter and fridge. A short hallway leads back to what can only be a single bathroom and bedroom.

I step carefully, feeling you right behind me because your presence makes me buzz with awareness, looking around and making sure we don't have any company. There's no one, not even in the bedroom with a double bed and dust-covered duvet. As a matter of fact, everything in this apartment is dust-covered. It's worse than other places. There's dust there, too, definitely, but not like this. This looks like several years' build up rather than just eight or nine months.

"So what are we looking for?" I ask, and my voice is muffled by the rugs and the couches and the weird artifacts whoever the owner of this apartment has collected. When I turn to look at you, you're looking around with as bewildered an expression as I'm wearing.

"I'm not sure," you say, and my eyes bug out at you.

"What do you mean, you're not sure?" I demand, turning fully to face you. "You two dragged me and my son all the way here and you don't know what it is that's supposed to be jarring my memory?"

Your eyes spell out your apology and I've forgiven you before I was ready to. Damn you.

"I've never been here before. Killian has, briefly, but . . ."

I don't hear the rest of what you're saying because I'm staring at the window. And I ignore the fact that you've used a name and broken the rule again. There's a desk directly beneath the window, an old phone from the 1980s sits to the side and several pencils litter the table here and there. Dust covers everything. But that's not what my eyes are drawn to. Nope, my vision goes directly to the most stark item in the entire room. A dreamcatcher hanging smack in the middle of the window. It certainly looks familiar, but it just can't be. It can't be the same one.

The memories of those days with him, that bastard, that lovable, infuriating bastard, float through my mind like lazy clouds. Finding him in the bug the first time we met when I was trying to steal his stolen car, making love with him under the stars on one of those rarely clear summer nights in Seattle, breaking into a motel room and finding this dreamcatcher, this very same dreamcatcher that a family had left behind.

He thought it was weird at first, called it flypaper for nightmares, which I ignored because I loved the idea that this Native American thing was supposed to keep all of one's bad dreams away. The idea fascinated me and I kept it. And then he kept it. I move towards the window and get a closer look at it, and I see that it is indeed the same one.

"This is . . ." I start, taking the dreamcatcher in my hands and staring intently at it. The wrapped string is still as soft and blue as it was all those years ago. This is unreal. How could he have lived here and I didn't know it? How could he walk the same streets I did for who knows how long and never cross my path? Granted, I was in Boston for a good while, but still.

"This is Neal's apartment, isn't it?" My voice is strained, sort of scratchy and dry because this is too strange of a coincidence. How can you know Neal? How can the pirate know Neal? You nod, taking a step towards me to see the item, but I keep it in my hands, not really wanting to let go of it. That bastard. The pain of him leaving me, abandoning me like everyone else had in my entire life until my kid, hits me hard and I have to take a deep breath and focus hard on not letting tears form in my eyes.

You give me time, but after a moment, you speak quietly. "He lived here for a while, during your time in Boston, I suppose. Before you came to Storybrooke."

"You know I lived in Boston?" Of course you do, though, because you said the kid came to find me there to bring me back to Storybrooke. The stupid tears have formed anyway, and I'm glad and thankful for the pirate now that he suggested Henry stay outside. I had told him about his father, that he was an asshole who left me out to dry, but explaining that Neal was here and close to us and we didn't even know it would be too much.

"I know a lot about you, Emma," you say quietly and I'm thankful that you don't push me and don't expect me to meet your eyes right away. You must know then, that I don't like crying in front of people and that I don't like showing weakness.

"Apparently, more than I know about myse . . ." I trail off because something else has caught my eye across the room. Something strewn across a bookshelf. It's a red strap, connected to a dated-looking camera and I could've sworn I saw a name stitched on it.

You turn sideways with me as I step around you and head for the bookshelf, pawing at my wet eyes, and when I reach it, I can see clearly what's written across the strap. _Henry. _

"His camera," you say, your voice almost a whisper, and I whirl with it in my hands to face you.

"This is Henry's?" I ask, because I've never seen it, but to my knowledge, Neal doesn't or didn't have anyone named Henry in his life. He doesn't know that Henry exists. And if this camera is my kid's, well, that's just not possible.

You nod, reaching out to feel the embroidered name. "I cross-stitched this for him, took me three days. I gave him this camera on his ninth birthday."

"His ninth . . ." I trail off again, feeling light-headed. I was there for his ninth birthday. It was in Boston and we went to the zoo and I threw him a surprise birthday party back at our old apartment and there were no cameras like this anywhere. "This is impossible."

You're quiet, letting me work through it. And after a moment, I frown at you. "How does Neal know about my son?"

"It's another long story," you say. "But to put it briefly, he found out that the curse had been broken in Storybrooke, but didn't come back until you and Henry and Neal's father paid him a visit here in New York."

"His father?" Now that's one I really do want to hear about because Neil said his father abandoned him. "And that's how this camera got here?"

You nod, eyes intent on mine, that unwavering gaze not giving up any deception. "So I've been here before, but I don't remember it. And my son knows his father but doesn't remember it. And I've seen Neal again after over a decade and don't remember it."

"That's right," you say, voice still quiet because you know that this sounds ridiculous. It sounds ridiculous, but this damned camera is sitting right here in front of me. And this is definitely Neal's apartment. There's simply no way this could have been set up because no one knows about mine and Neal's connection with the damned dreamcatcher. The camera you could've planted, certainly, but the dreamcatcher, no way.

Panic starts to fill my chest, because just a shred of belief has pierced my heart. Shit. Shit Shit. How could I forget this? This can't be made up. It makes sense now, what you've been saying, but it's still bizarre and sounds unreal and I don't want to believe it. But then again, maybe I'm just afraid. No, scratch that, not maybe. I'm definitely, definitely afraid.

But what if this is all Neal's doing? What if he's gone through this elaborate ruse just to get me back? That bastard. I look sharply up at you.

"So where is Neal now?"

You hesitate, and I can see now that the other shoe has dropped. What is that expression on your face? Guilt? Sadness? It's not the face of someone who is working alongside a con artist.

"What happened to him?" I demand because you still haven't answered. Your lashes flutter as you open your eyes again, holding your hands out in supplication.

"I don't know for certain, Emma . . ." and this seems partly true from your pained expression, but I sense that there's more to the story, more that you don't want to say, more that I probably don't want to hear. "What happened to him?" I ask more firmly this time, gripping the sides of the dreamcatcher until it bends and almost breaks, splintering a fraction beneath my fingers.

"He . . ." you start and then clear your throat. "He jumped through a portal several months ago from the Enchanted Forest to here, and no one has heard from him since."

"You mean, he's here somewhere? He's in New York?"

I don't know what the emotions are that flicker through my stomach, but the first one is fear. I'm afraid to introduce Neal to my kid. I don't want my son to be hurt like I was. I don't want him to have to feel that pain because I know that abandonment is a thing for Neal and his family, from what little he told me back then about his father and mother. But you shake your head.

"More likely, he's still in Storybrooke, or maybe in Boston looking for you. But he could be here somewhere, or somewhere between here and there. There's no way to tell."

"Several months you said?"

You nod, and the furrow between your brows deepens. "How did he manage to get through so soon and it took you and the pirate all this time?"

But then I shake my head, holding up my hand to stop any further speech. It's too much right now. And daylight is fading fast, so we should probably start heading back. Before I do that, though, I need to say something to you, something that has been floating in the front of my mind ever since I saw that dreamcatcher.

"So how am I going to believe you? How am I going to get my so-called memories back?" I'm terrified, but these connections have me thinking, and what I want is to find out more. Why is it that you're so damned determined to get me back to this Enchanted Forest as you call it, and why is it that what you've said makes some sort of crazy sense, and why is it that I feel like I should believe you?

"Hook was on to something," you say, eyes drifting out to the hallway. The door is still open, but I doubt either of them heard what was said in here. "As daft as he may appear. True love's kiss might actually jar your memory, or return it completely."

"It's just. . . surreal."

"I know."

I shake my head.

There's no time to sit and ponder however, because there's a thumping noise out in the hallway, followed by a muffled yell and then the kid's yelp. I know that yelp. When he's scared at night, or when he was little and there was something outside his room that frightened him or gave him bad dreams, he would make that sound.

So whatever is out there, it's a bad thing. And soon after, I hear the pirate curse, followed by another thump. You and I stare at each other for a split second, and then it's a blur of movement, me first because I'm a little faster and we're out in the hall.

But it's too late.

There are walkers, two of them. One is running towards the pirate and my kid down the hallway and the other one has noticed us back by the apartment door. They must have come out of a closet or another apartment and taken Jolly by surprise.

The walker lumbers towards us, its eyes unseeing, its fleshy putrid smell wafting towards me even though it's ten feet away, and I catch one last glimpse of the kid and the pirate before Jolly Roger pulls him around the corner and away from me. Panic clenches at my heart, squeezes tight and doesn't let go.

"Henry!" I scream, not caring that the walker is getting closer.

"It's okay, mom!" he yells from behind the wall. "We'll go down this stairway, meet you at the bottom."

But no, that's not how I want this to go. I want to take both of these fuckers out and get back to my son. He is NOT going to be separated from me, not for even a few minutes, because I don't think I can handle it. No, I know I can't handle it, because he's all that I have. My gun is out of my pants in a flash and the walker's head in front of us explodes in two quick bursts. Rule # 2 - Double Tap, remember?

It crumples to the ground and I've stopped feeling bad for these things a while back because even though they used to be people and they used to have families and they used to feel pain, now they're monsters and all they want is to harm my son. I jump over it, following the walker chasing the pirate and the kid, wondering why Henry doesn't just take it out with the crossbow, but I guess he's just been caught by surprise and hasn't had time to get off a good shot.

As for the pirate however, there's no excuse for not taking the thing out right off the bat. Maybe he's a little gun-shy, or zombie-shy after this last encounter with one up close and personal. And just as I round the next corner and get an eyeful of my kid and Hook disappearing down the stairwell, more walkers appear from an adjoining hallway, attracted by the sound of my gun apparently and headed straight for me.

"Fuck!" I growl as I turn around quickly and come face to face with you. It's much too close, and I've only done it accidentally, but I can't say that I mind. You do smell nice, even in the midst of this smelly zombie herd. You turn as quickly as I do, and my hand goes to your lower back, pushing you along back in the opposite direction, so that we can get the hell out of here and get back to the kid.

I manage to get in front of you at some point, because I'm experienced with guns and knives and I figure that besides your basic sword skills, all you can really do is your magic tricks, so it's probably best that I'm in front. And I take the stairs in the opposite stairwell two at a time, all the way to the bottom, but by the time I burst forward from the door and out into the afternoon sunlight, I look around and don't see anything but more walkers.

Damn it.

I figure Jolly and Henry's stairwell probably comes out around the side of the building, probably that door I scoped out on my initial walk around, so I step around the corner, fully aware that several zombies are headed towards us, lumbering slowly though, and my heart is pounding like it's never pounded before.

But I can't focus on that right now. I've got to find my kid. I don't see anything around the corner except more zombies headed in the opposite direction. Shit shit shit. They've probably chased them both around to the next street. And now there's too many of them to fight off. Now is the time for running, for getting to safety and the kid knows the way.

He's been out here enough times and we've been over our plans enough times to where he can navigate these streets in his sleep. As long as he can get back to the park, he's golden. I pray that he can manage it, because I don't trust the pirate at all. About as far as I could throw him.

Give me a month to build a catapult big enough and it might be pretty far, but as for right now, no way. I'm just about to motion towards you so that we can follow them, maybe catch up with them on a parallel street, but several more walkers have seen us and now the only open path is to our right.

You seem to have already noticed this and you grab my arm, and through the material of my clothes, the buzzing isn't as pronounced, but I see soon that our options are limited, so to the right it is. A brisk jog is not enough anymore to outrun these things. It's like I said, they've gotten faster, and smarter. It's like they were working together to flush us out of there. But that can't be possible. It just can't be.

This street is familiar to me; I've been here before and if I'm not mistaken, there's a restaurant right around the next corner. At a full sprint, you're right on my heels, the kid's camera in your hands. I've dropped the dreamcatcher some time ago, but it's the last thing on my mind. The oncoming horde is behind us and I know that this restaurant is our one solid hope to let them pass by. Hopefully they can't smell us.

And as I round the corner to our left, there it is, boarded up, but the door doesn't look impossible to get into. I stop in front of it, brace myself, and facing away from it, I give it one solid back kick and it bursts open. All I can hope is that there aren't more walkers in here.

We hurry inside, and you move to close the door, busted as it is and I pull a chair up to it and cram it beneath the handle, knowing that if they really want it, it would only take a few of them to push past this. I'm worried they can see us through the slits in the window's boards, so I grab your hand, skin to skin and the buzzing is back, but I have to ignore it and pull you towards the counter.

It's an old diner and we duck down behind the counter and I work to catch my breath and slow down my heart rate. It's out of control, damn the fact that I'm in prime physical condition. My son is not with me, and I'm panicking. I'm not certain where he is. I do know he's with a pirate man that I'm not completely comfortable with and that doesn't help.

My breathing doesn't get better; no, it gets worse. The gasps of air are coming in shallow heaves and you watch me with concern etched all over your face, moving a hand back to rest on my shoulder.

"Just breathe, Emma. Breathe." And I'm trying, but I'm panicking. I'm freaking out.

"I. . . I can't." I gasp, and you shush me, rubbing my back as my body moves heavily up and down, my lungs contracting and relaxing as I struggle for a good breath of air. Something soothing flows gently through me, and when I look up, I can see you focusing on me, something light and wispy emerging from your palms to my back. It's working. You're helping me like you helped me this morning with my ankle.

At last, I manage it, telling myself that it's going to be okay. That he's a survivor, just like me. He's going to be fine. He'll be okay.

"There you go. Just breathe. That's better," you say soothingly and it's nice to have you here, to help me through this.

This isn't something that's ever happened to me before and I don't really know how to handle it. I figure this must be what an asthma attack is like. Or a panic attack. Fear of not being able to get a breath. But you stay there, breathing with me, calming me back down, helping me with your magic, reassuring me that Henry will be okay. That he has to be okay.

* * *

"Boston to Manhattan, over." I have to whisper it, because there's a whole horde outside this door and if they hear us, we're dead meat. My head snaps down to make sure my own volume is turned to low. A minute passes. Two minutes. They're the slowest minutes of my life. We're both holding our breath, close together behind the counter, broken glass in shards all around us. I've been in this restaurant before, back before the plague hit. And apparently Neal lived near here at some point. Shit.

Waiting.

Waiting.

And finally, finally, a crackle comes across the airwaves. Thank god. Or whoever. If there is anyone. Probably not, considering this fucking plague of zombies.

"Loud and clear Boston. Go ahead," comes Henry's half-whispered, out of breath voice. A gush of air leaves my lungs and I can feel the air around us deflate, the tension releasing from both our shoulders. He's okay. He wouldn't have answered back unless it was safe to do so.

"Rule number 3. Over." He knows what this means. Home base. Rule number 3 is always get back to home base.

"Roger that, Boston. En route. Over and out." .

I smile because he loves this. This semi-police chatter. I haven't the slightest if this is how the radio talk really goes, but Henry gets a kick out of it, and it really is useful. All I know is that we sound pretty damn close to the old Dragnet episodes back when reruns used to come on. Back when the TV still came on. Back before the world went to hell.

"Rule number three?" You say quietly and your eyebrows furrow in at all this foreign code talk. But there's amusement in your eyes, dancing around in there next to the relief.

"It means get back to home base. He's okay. Thank god he's okay."

You nod and lean your head back against the counter, closing your eyes for a brief moment, and I take the opportunity to study your face. All the dreams I've been having, they've been scattered and repetitive up until you and this Jolly Roger guy appeared and broke my rule number 9. Also my fairytale rule. Which number was that again? I can never remember. And when you arrived, I started dreaming more vividly about crazy stuff: dragons and purple smoke and ogres and dwarves and all kinds of shit. Again, breaking the fairytale rule, because cinderella and snow white and sleeping beauty, that shit's just not my cup of tea.

And yet here you are, telling me that it absolutely is my cup of tea, that I'm so up to my eyeballs in fairytales that it's not even funny. And yet, you're real. You're flesh and bones and you have dark circles beneath your eyes that tell me you haven't been sleeping. You're worried, and stressed, and anxious, and I still don't know you.

But I feel like I do know you. It's the most bizarre thing. I do know you, somehow. And you know Henry. I can just feel it.

You're certainly not lying, because I can usually tell when people are lying, but all of this is too damned far-fetched to possibly be true. And you know Neal. And Jolly Roger knows Neal, and apparently Neal knows Henry, but that can't possibly be true because that bastard Neal got me pregnant and abandoned me to be arrested and blamed for his thievery and I haven't seen him since.

And now Neal is . . . back in this world? Fighting the zombies somewhere? I took him for dead a long time ago, but if Neal is one thing, it's resourceful. And if he's another thing, it's a survivor. Also an asshole, but that's beside the point.

At last you open your eyes, you can probably feel me looking at you, watching you rest, and you meet my gaze. And god your eyes are so much more full of color than I originally thought. Up close like this, I can see the lighter browns and specks of gold, the dilated pupils in the early evening half-light of the diner. They're beautiful. Again, I wonder what our connection was, if all this is true. I want to find out.

Whatever you read on my face, it shakes some sense back into you and you stand up, eyes darting around wearily, looking out for more zombies as your brush the dust and debris from your leather vest and pants. Following your lead, I stand next to you, hand firmly on my gun just in case we get any more surprises.

"Can I trust this Jolly Roger guy?"

You nod, but your jaw clenches slightly. "Henry will be safe with Hook. He has no reason to take Henry, it's you the pirate wants."

I ignore the part about you saying my son's real name and the eyeliner guy being a pirate and the fact that he's apparently Captain Hook. Might as well be goddamned Jack Sparrow. And who forgot to invite Elizabeth Swan? She was always the best part of the movie anyway, or so I thought. And she had a nice last name, to boot.

"Me?"

You clear your throat and start turning in circles slowly, looking around for who knows what while you speak. "Well, obviously he tried to kiss you before, thought he was your 'True Love'."

Your eyes roll and you over exaggerate your air quotes. A laugh almost escapes my lips because you seem so prim and proper and that gesture was anything but. And the hint of jealousy. . . Interesting. Our connection rolls again through my mind. What happened between us? Why do I feel inexplicably drawn to you, magnetically, electrically. Is it this magic business? I have so many questions. But I stick with the most important for now.

"True Love's kiss. Why would that jar my memories?"

"Sometimes magic is strange and unexplainable. But it could work. I cursed you, changed your memories, so maybe True Love's kiss could break that curse."

"But . . . I'm still not clear on how a kiss would do that."

"Because, Emma, True Love's kiss is supposed to cure anything," you say it bitterly, and I ignore again once that you've said my real name. I'm starting to like the way it sounds rolling from your lips. My frown, however, appears at something else in your sentence. The bitterness.

"But you don't think it will work for some reason?"

Our eyes meet, and I know that you can see what I'm asking about. I can see your hesitation, your lack of faith in something, and your heavy sigh and sad eyes simply confirm it.

"It didn't work for me. I thought I could bring back my true love a long time ago, but it didn't . . .," you inhale deeply, restoring to your lungs all the air you just breathed out.

It's like you're breathing for both yourself and for this person you couldn't save. Like you've been carrying around this burden for a long time. And it doesn't seem like this person is me. Maybe I was mistaken about the connection.

"However," you steady yourself, not going in to more detail, although that raises more questions in my mind. "It did work for you. You brought Henry back from a sleeping curse with it. My sleeping curse, actually."

The only thing I glean from that sentence is the last part. "You cursed my son?"

"Accidentally. I tried cursing you."

"What the hell?"

You shrug, like it's no big deal that you tried something like that and it backfired and my son suffered the consequences. But I can see the guilt in your eyes and I realize that you feel remorse for it, that whatever happened between us is water under the bridge.

"You waltzed into my town, being dragged along by my son, and you shook everything up. You threatened to turn everything I had worked so hard to construct and keep perfect on its head, although in hindsight it wasn't really perfect. It was miserable. I was miserable and Henry was miserable. And you broke the initial curse, made time start ticking again and people started remembering who they were," your chest rises and falls with your steady breaths, but you still don't look into my eyes.

"And Henry was smitten with you, because you were the savior and he despised me because I was the Evil Queen and I was afraid I would lose my son to you. So I tried to get rid of you with a sleeping curse."

Hmm, simple solution to a volatile situation. Oh wait. It was a curse. My eyes bug out at you. "And Henry was cursed instead of me?"

"Yes. He's gallant and brave and foolhardy, like his grandparents, and like you. But he did it so that you would finally believe him about everything. And then you did."

"That's why we have Rule #17 - don't be a hero," I say with a half-grin, but you don't look up. "And my True Love's kiss brought him back?"

"It did. Because you finally believed."

"And now we share a son?"

"We did," you say quietly, looking at me finally with tears in your eyes. "We saved him together in Neverland, and we got him back without killing each other. And we could've been happy. Until the next curse hit and we were all going to be sent back to our world, back into our old lives, except for you and Henry. So I gave you both your happy ending."

I watch your face and it's the most incredible thing I've ever seen. These stories are outrageous and unbelievable and apparently Neverland is a real place, but I believe you somehow.

You're humble and I don't think you know it. Apparently you were an evil queen but I'm not sure you know that you're good. I can just sense it, the goodness. And you say you did something so selfless and wonderful for me and my son that now I don't even know what to do with myself. I do, however, know what I want now.

"I want to remember."

You scrunch your eyebrows, unsure if you've heard me correctly, so I repeat myself. "I want to remember. All of it."

"We'll have to figure out who your True Love is," you say, and your voice is low and you're staring at my lips with an expression I can't comprehend. For some reason, you're . . .magnetic I guess is the best way to describe it, and I'm drawn to you and my body has somehow gotten closer to yours and I'm watching you watch my mouth.

"Neal, maybe?" you say, breaking the spell, and alerting me again to our surroundings, dampening the roaring in my ears, allowing me to hear what's happening around us. There are biters coming.

I can hear them lumbering towards us from around the corner, so I grab your hand, ignoring your question and pull you out the door. We sneak out without been seen and go down the street, back towards my place. And as we jog through the streets, my ankle feeling good as new, footfalls muffled by all the garbage and abandoned paper littering the streets, I can't help but think about the way your pupils dilated even more while looking at my lips. I want to know what you were thinking just then, and I wish I could've been a mind reader, just for a moment, to see your thoughts.

I'm new to all this, or so I think, all this fairytale business and breaking of my Rule #35 or whichever it is, but it seems sort of perfect. You're the evil queen, I'm the savior. You're in desperate need of my help to save the world. Your world. And that's apparently my job. And we share a son. And this magic business, that's an interesting perk.

But before I know it, and it really takes about an hour, but we're at the building and I hope to whoever is listening or not that Henry is safe up there with John Paul Jones and that everything is okay. I turn around to face you, and you're slightly out of breath because you still don't know the first rule of this world. Cardio.

You really should've been training harder for this. But you don't seem to care about your heart rate, or maybe you do, because your chest is heaving again and you're staring at my lips again, like this is the last resort and I'm the only hope you have left. You look desperate, thirsty, hungry, like you're about ready to pass out.

"Look," I say, realizing something and letting it just come out of my mouth, no filter. It's the first time I want to know your name and I want it to be heavy on my tongue and crossing over my lips, like my mouth has gone too long without saying it. But that can't be, because I don't know you. But I feel like I do. And that's what I have to tell you before we go back inside, before Davy Jones tries to kiss me again with his scratchy face and his roving eyes.

"I've got all kinds of weird feelings inside me and my brain is tumbling all around with your stories. I don't know what to make of it all. It's too . . .outlandish, it's too bizarre," I'm rambling now and you're standing in front of me, watching me gesticulate in front of the stoop of the apartment complex. "It's just unbelievable and yes, seeing Neal's apartment was . . . and Henry's name on that camera was even more . . . but I just don't know what to make of it all . . ."

You cut me off by grabbing hold of my wrist as it flips through the air while I question my very existence in this world. A charge of electricity that is beginning to feel familiar rushes through my cells and I stop talking and look down at our touching skin. I'm buzzing with whatever this 'magic' is that you've been talking about and showing me and sharing with me. And when you step even closer, still holding my wrist and get into my personal space, I don't stop you. I don't want to stop you.

Up close, closer than you've been before, you smell intriguing and nice, like the woods and like a campfire, and like cinnamon and fresh herbs. And then all I can look at is your eyes, those specks of gold floating around amongst the brown, like a good whiskey in firelight, lighting up your entire iris. It's quite an effect, and it leaves me speechless. This is crazy. I don't even know you.

And yet, I want you to do this more than anything. More than I currently want air. You give me the slightest of shy smiles before pulling our bodies together. Our fronts press together and . . . god that feels good.

"What are you doing?" My newly weak voice trembles, and I don't even care. I actually don't care what it is that you're doing because it already feels incredible, but I thought I should ask anyway, just in case you decide at the last minute to kill me and eat me for dinner, to share me with the pirate and his hook. I don't even care at that moment if I get my memories back or not, all I care about is finding out what your lips will feel like on mine.

"I just want to try something," and you're right about that, because you move a stray hair behind my ears and I'd let you try anything you wanted after a move like that.

And you know something? There's bad timing, and there's really _really_ bad timing. Like shitty timing. And that's the kind of timing that pokes its messy mop of hair out of our third floor window and looks down on us.

"Mom?"

_A/N - thanks everyone for reading. Let me know what you think about the past couple of chapters?_


End file.
